


Sleeping Somewhere Cold (Until You Lead Me Back Home)

by IcyPanther



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Injured Lance (Voltron), Langst, Minor Character Death, Swim Team, Team as Family, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-09-07 03:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPanther/pseuds/IcyPanther
Summary: (Alternate Universe) Lance’s family was dead. And he… he had killed them. It didn’t matter what anyone else said, didn’t matter that he wasn’t the cause of the accident. He knew he’d killed them. And while Lance may have survived he wasn’t living. His dreams died alongside his family and his world has become a dark, cold nightmare. He isn't sure he is ever going to wake up from it. He… he isn't sure he wants to.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline notes:** Alternative Universe fic set in high school. Lance is seventeen/senior and other characters are set in ages/roles applicable to their canon counterparts around Lance.  
>  **Warning notes:** There is character death and the entire story will incorporate those elements as well as grief and recovery. Chapter one does contain the death scene that stems from a vehicular accident for any possible triggers.

_How can you see into my eyes like open doors?_  
_Leading you down into my core_  
_Where I've become so numb_  
_Without a soul, m_ _y spirit's sleeping somewhere cold  
_ _Until you find it there and lead it back home_

 _Wake me up inside_  
_Wake me up inside_  
_Call my name and save me from the dark_  
_Bid my blood to run_  
_Before I come undone  
_ _Save me from the nothing I've become_

 _Now that I know what I'm without_  
_You can't just leave me_  
_Breathe into me and make me real  
_ _Bring me to life_

 _Wake me up inside_  
_Wake me up inside_  
_Call my name and save me from the dark_  
_Bid my blood to run_  
_Before I come undone  
_ _Save me from the nothing I've become_

_—Bring Me To Life, Evanescence_

_xxx_

“Please?” Lance went for his best puppy dog eyes, meeting Mamá’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

She chuckled. “ _Mijo,_ no. School Monday, no exception, not even for first place state swimmers.”

Lance let out a huff mixed with a grin and slouched back in the seat of the family’s car, wedged in between the door and Rachel, who let out a laugh of her own and ruffled his hair.

“Stop that,” he groused, pushing her hands away.

“I’m inspecting your head,” she told him, going back to the action although it turned gentler and Lance leaned into it with a pleased hum. “I think those wins inflated your ego and made it swell.”

“Hey!”

“Be nice to the kid,” Veronica leaned forward from Rachel’s other side, eyes twinkling behind her glasses.

“Thank you, Veronica,” Lance said, straight-faced as possible. “I always knew you were my favorite sist—”

“He’s suffering from an enlarged cranium. Not going to be a popular look with the ladies.”

“Mamá,” Lance whined, “they’re being mean to me.”

“Crying to Mamá?” Marco asked from the backseat, poking a finger through the headrest and into Lance’s hair. “Uh oh, Lancito, I think it did get bigger. Gonna have to call you, hmm, Lancegrande, eh?”

“You are all mean,” Lance grumbled.

“ _Mijos, se amable con tu hermanito,”_ Papá called from the driver’s seat.

 _“Gracias,_ Papá,” Lance thanked and stuck his tongue out at Rachel and Veronica.

_“No es agradable burlarse de su gran cabeza.”_

“Papá!”

He crossed his arms across his chest as everyone in the vehicle laughed.

“You know we tease, Lancito,” Rachel nudged him. Her voice softened. “We’re very proud of you, _hermano.”_

Lance felt his cheeks darken at the praise.

“You worked so hard,” Veronica agreed. “And we are so, so happy for you.”

“You killed it,” Marco chimed in, poking Lance again. “That scholarship is in the bag for GGU.”

“...You think so?” Lance asked tentatively.

“I know it,” Veronica leaned around Rachel again. “And GGU will get another vaunted Esposito to add to its ranks of alumni when you graduate.”

Lance ducked his head.

Veronica had graduated from the acclaimed Galaxy Garrison University four years ago and immediately been recruited by NASA as a high priority data analyst. To go to her alma mater, which besides its space piloting program that he was gunning for, boasted one of the best swim teams in the country and he had hopes to get in on scholarship as there was no way, no matter how much he wished it, could he afford the tuition and he didn’t qualify anywhere close for academic scholarship like his best friend, Hunk, was pursuing for their engineering program, was a dream come true.

Placing first in state at the championship in both freestyle _and_ butterfly and second in team relay had pretty much guaranteed his acceptance and financial aid.

He still couldn’t believe it.

It hadn’t really clicked until about an hour into their drive home, later in the evening than planned upon as his parents insisted they go out for dinner to celebrate the win and the fact that the entire family was together for the first time in a while — Veronica was hard-pressed to get off NASA’s campus and Marco lived over two hours out and Rachel was at college herself across the country in New York and although Luis and Lisa and their kids were weekly staples it was nice to see them outside the hubbub of normal life — that he’d actually won state.

The medals around his neck, two adorned on dark blue ribbons and one red, felt both heavy with purpose and light with joy.

“ _Gracias, hermanos,”_ Lance said quietly and he was treated to another round of hair ruffles and finger pokes and a gentle “aww” from Veronica.

Talk dissolved around him then and Lance settled his head against the window with a content sigh, watching the dark scenery rush by as his eyelids fought a battle against sleep. He hadn’t been joking about trying to get out of school on Monday as he knew he was going to spend all of Sunday sleeping after the grueling workout he’d put it through today; his limbs feeling a little jelly-like, and he still had to finish up his essay for English and that meant finishing the novel and he was far, far too tired to read the dry text.

Maybe he could take a little nap now. They had about an hour still till they got to the family home and for all their jokes about how he was still their _little_ brother (although the fact Lance was nearly as tall as Luis, riding with Lisa and his kids in a separate car behind them, although with none of the bulk, seemed to mean nothing) someone should carry him in. Lance’s lips pulled into a smirk at the thought. They’d sooner leave him in the car and Marco, despite being twenty-five and further proving that age did not mean wisdom, would probably draw on his face.

“Aw, c’mere Lancito,” and Rachel’s arms wrapped about his shoulder and pulled him free of the window and guided his head to pillow on her shoulder, squishy from her hoodie. A hand smoothed his bangs back and a gentle kiss was pressed to his forehead.

“You’re being abnormally nice,” Lance told her even as he shifted to make himself more comfortable, Rachel’s affection more often shown in shoulder punches and hair ruffles, which were getting harder as he had a few inches on her now.

“Excuse me? I am _always_ nice.”

Her words though hid a laugh and she pressed another kiss to his head. “Rest up, baby brother. You did good today.”

Lance had barely closed his eyes when the searing beam of headlights pierced through his eyelids.

It was Mamá’s gasp that had them flying open.

“ _Dio—”_

The world turned over with a clash of metal and screeching brakes and screams.

Lance was torn from his spot against Rachel, head striking the seat in front of him and then smashing against the cold glass of the window.

His vision whited out.

Everything spun.

His body jerked against the seatbelt.

Rachel _screamed._

Marco yelled for Mamá.

He sounded so _scared._

The world turned again.

Metal crunched.

Lance had no idea what way was up.

He vaguely realized the car was rolling.

His own cry was locked in his throat.

They turned again.

Marco went silent.

Lance heard something _crack_ and white-hot pain shot up his leg.

He choked on his next breath.

Rachel was still screaming.

_Splash!_

Everything stopped spinning.

The change was jarring.

Lance blinked open eyes he didn’t remember closing.

Papá’s glassy unseeing ones stared back, his head twisted at an angle it was not meant to go against the driver’s seat.

Lance tasted acid.

No.

No no no no no.

Rachel stopped screaming.

The silence left his ears ringing.

There was another noise. A burble.

Water.

They were sinking.

They were _sinking._

Lance jolted as something cold and wet touched his foot.

The movement made him groan and his vision flickered.

“L-Lance?” Rachel stuttered. A hand gripped his arm. “Lance?”

He moaned again.

Rachel started to call out for their other family members, her voice wavering.

No one answered.

Rachel let out a low sob.

Lance wanted to join her but his chest felt too tight.

No.

This…

This wasn’t happening.

Mamá. Papá. Veronica. Marco.

No.

No no no no.

The water was over his feet now.

Lance swallowed thickly, ears still ringing.

Rachel let out another breathy sob next to him, her fingers digging into his arm.

He had to do something.

His head hurt.

“Ra—” he tried, coughing. “Rachel.”

 _“Dios,_ Lance. _Dios mío. Dios mío.”_

“We… we have to go,” he managed to say.

They were going to drown otherwise.

The water was at his calves now.

It was so _cold._

He’d spent half his life in water. It had never scared him before.

He was terrified now.

He tried to angle his body and his leg _screamed._ Lance let out a strangled gasp as he looked down, the sight barely visible in the darkness.

His leg was pinned between the door and the seat.

He tugged at it, slowly and then more desperately.

Stuck stuck stuck _stuck._

He felt hot blood run down it.

It didn’t move.

“I’m stuck.”

He said the words but it didn’t sound like him.

Everything was starting to tunnel again.

His gaze drifted past Rachel.

Veronica was slumped forward, seatbelt holding her in.

Her chest faintly rose.

She was still alive.

“Me t-too,” Rachel stuttered. Lance could hear her hand fumbling for the seatbelt and her own groan. “Lance, I… I can’t move.”

A second later there was a faint glow and Lance dully realized Rachel had found her phone. She held it between them, the light illuminating her face that looked as scared as Lance felt.

As one they glanced down to their feet.

The water was nearly at the top of the seat. The door had Lance’s leg pinned in while the front console had ridden up atop Rachel’s, pressing against her knees and into the space between her and Lance so other than her hand gripping his above it she could not reach him.

A bloodied, still arm draped over the console.

Mamá.

Rachel let out a short cry and Lance closed his eyes as tears stung them.

No.

This was a dream.

A nightmare.

If he concentrated hard enough he would wake up.

Water swirled atop his knees.

Rachel had turned from him, shaking Veronica and begging her to wake up.

Lance twisted as much as he could towards the backseat.

Marco was leaning against the window; a huge, jagged crack that water was rapidly seeping through under his head.

Blood decorated his neck.

“M-Marco?” Lance whispered. He tried to reach a hand through the seat that Marco’s teasing fingers had done just minutes ago.

He brushed the tip of Marco’s nose.

His brother didn’t react.

Lance turned back to Rachel, who was pushing now on the console holding her pinned, tears painting her cheeks in the light of her phone.

No signal, Lance noted.

As though calling for help would do anything.

Rachel’s movements were making splashing noises now as the water settled in their laps.

It reminded Lance of splashing in puddles during the rare rainstorm.

He loved the rain.

Rachel sobbed.

Lance’s chest felt tight.

His head _ached._

This was no rain.

This was no pool, no beach.

This was a grave.

“Lance, Lance,” she stopped trying to push against the console and instead shoved her hand across it.

Lance slowly, heavily raised one of his own.

It trembled.

It didn’t look like his own hand. He didn’t feel like he was lifting it.

He felt Rachel grip it though, intertwining their fingers with a last desperation to hold on to something.

They were going to die.

The water was at his chest now, nearly Rachel’s shoulders.

It was so _cold._

“Rachel,” he whispered.

He didn’t know what to say.

He wanted to comfort her.

He wanted to be comforted.

Everything felt like a lie.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said.

He didn’t believe it.

Neither did she.

“Help is coming,” she choked out. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Rachel,” he repeated. He tightened his grip.

Her hand was warm.

So warm.

“We have to hold our breaths,” she said quickly, still crying. “Lance, it’s gonna be okay. They’re going to get us out. They w-will.”

They wouldn’t.

Not in time.

His head hurt.

Everything felt sluggish, slow.

The water was at his shoulders now, clipping Rachel’s chin.

She let out a whimper.

She knew it too.

“I love you, Lance. I love you. _Te quiero. T-te quiero.”_

Those were going to be her last words.

“I, I love you too,” Lance sobbed. “Rachel, _please, por favor, Dios…”_

He didn’t know what he was asking.

He strained again at his leg.

Blood gushed.

Matching ocean eyes to his own looked at him.

She was terrified.

The water brushed her lips.

“Hold on,” she pleaded. “Lance, it’s gonna be okay. I love you. I love—”

She sucked in a breath just as the water closed over her face.

Lance _wailed_.

He kept his fingers twined with hers, desperately holding on.

He yanked at his pinned leg, crying.

If he could just get free he could save her.

He had to.

Just…

He pulled on it again.

His vision whited out as _pain pain pain_ as something _tore._

The water batted his chin.

He sucked in a breath too over his scream.

It closed over his mouth.

He looked back to Rachel, their eyes meeting even as the water crossed over hers, her hair bobbing on the current.

He saw the moment her eyes started to slip almost a minute later.

Felt the moment her hand began to grow limp two minutes in.

No.

No no no.

_Dios, por favor._

Save her.

Please no.

He had air. He could give her air.

He just needed to get free.

His leg was both achingly cold and a burning fire.

He couldn’t get free.

No no no no no _no._

 _Dios,_ no.

_Please._

Rachel’s lips parted.

She didn’t move again.

Lance choked on his own sob.

A stream of bubbles burst from his lips as surely as the fear starting to overtake him.

He couldn’t breathe.

He…

He was going to drown.

The phone light went out.

Rachel’s screams and prayers echoed in the silence.

His lungs burned.

The water didn’t feel so cold now.

The scene was starting to blur; tears and water and darkness.

He felt himself start to slip away.

He didn’t fight it.

He couldn’t.

He…

He was going to drown.

And all of this…

All of this was his fault.

He’d killed them.

He’d killed his family.

It was the last thought he had before blackness took over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commission fic (25k) for kayleeschuyler (stephaniebithell) with the overall prompt of AU-verse where (most of) Lance’s family dies in an accident that Lance feels responsible for and follows the aftermath as his remaining family and his friends come together to try and help him heal. I recommend bringing tissues, this one is a tear-jerker pretty much all the way through. It is a darker story because of the content and the grief and loss, but I do promise it has a happy, hopeful ending. Which is also why I did not go with my original title for this from another Evanescence song (All That’s Left of Yesterday) as it seemed too depressing when hope and love and family are the themes. Bring Me to Life is one of my absolute favorite songs ever and I was so excited to finally find a fic in which to include it ♥
> 
> If you enjoyed it please do leave a comment. I would love to hear your thoughts on the fic so far ♥


	2. Two

 

Lance killed his family.

No matter what anyone said otherwise.

He’d killed them.

Not the drunk driver who had crossed into their lane.

Not the impact to Mamá and Papá that Luis had told him through his sobs had broken Papá’s neck and crushed Mamá’s heart.

No pain, he said.

It was of no comfort.

Not the piece of glass from the window that had cut Marco’s neck.

Not the water that had ultimately drowned both Veronica and Rachel.

Him.

Because the entire family had come together for his swim meet.

Because he’d won and prompted a dinner celebration that had them leaving late.

Because of _him._

He’d killed them.

It was his fault.

His fault his family was _dead._

And yet he lived.

He’d lived when they had all died.

He had a broken right tibia, cracked in three places. He’d torn through his calf, shredding flesh that had been stitched up.

They said it would scar.

He didn’t care.

He had a concussion, four cracked ribs from the firefighters who had pulled him out of the vehicle, deep bruises gouged into his chest from the seatbelt, more on his arms and legs where they’d struck inside the car.

They told him he’d been under for almost fifteen minutes. They told him his lungs and heart, strengthened from years of swimming, had been what saved him. They’d been able to revive him.

Not Rachel.

Not Veronica.

Just him.

Only him.

His fault.

He’d killed them.

It…

It wasn’t fair.

He’d done this.

He should be dead too.

He wished he’d died too.

Luis had tightly hugged him, large arms covered in bruises from his own crash, and told him, no, no, not to say that, please don’t say that.

Seeing the bandages on Luis had only made Lance feel worse.

He’d welcomed the pain in the embrace as his ribs groaned in protest, clinging all the tighter himself.

He deserved the pain.

But pain meant he was alive.

He shouldn’t be.

Not when everyone else...

The kids were all right, Luis said, and Lisa had suffered a broken arm from the airbag deployment when the oncoming car had struck them after sending Papá’s off the road and down the embankment into a reservoir lake. But otherwise they were okay. They would be fine.

Lance was at least grateful for that.

The drunk driver had died too, Luis reported.

He’d sounded so _angry._

It wasn’t something Lance associated with his always cheerful oldest brother.

Older.

He only had one now.

Because he’d killed Marco.

He should have died too.

Luis hadn’t quite yelled but he’d _growled,_ told Lance to stop saying that, told him that it wasn’t his fault. That he was so, so glad that Lance was going to be all right, that he was alive.

He’d cried while saying such, tears coursing down his cheeks to trickle over his beard.

The eldest of five, now the eldest of two.

All Lance had been able to do was apologize, over and over and over.

It would still never be enough.

He’d done this.

Luis must have asked for the doctors to do something as Lance didn’t remember much after that, time passing in a hazy blur.

He was grateful for it.

He didn’t want to remember.

To think.

To feel.

It hurt too much.

He faintly realized he must have missed school as Monday rolled around somewhere in there.

He regretted ever wishing he could get out of it.

He’d have done _anything_ to be there right now.

For things to be…

For his family to still be…

He prayed when he woke up from the drug induced haze he would find it was all a dream.

He didn’t want to live this nightmare any longer.

He wanted to wake up.

Please let him wake up.

xxx

Lance woke up to someone holding his hand, thumb rubbing a circle on the back of it.

It felt nice.

He tried to place it.

Mamá? No, the hand was too big.

Papá? No, not calloused enough.

Luis, maybe? Marco?

His eyelids were too heavy to check.

He instead tried to figure out the why.

Had he been sick? He didn’t think so. He’d been drinking so much orange juice in an attempt to ward off any cold before the state meet that Mamá said he would bleed orange if she poked him.

State meet.

Bleed.

Blood.

Lance choked on his next breath.

No.

No.

It had to be a dream. A nightmare.

It couldn’t be real.

When he opened his eyes he’d be back in his room and everything would be _fine._

Deep breath.

And go.

Bright white hospital walls greeted him.

He choked.

No.

_No._

This wasn’t real. This wasn’t—

“Lance?” the hand holding his gave a squeeze. “Lance, hey.”

And then Hunk, his best friend, was there, his face blocking out the painful white, as it hovered over him, dark brows pulled together with concern and a touch of fear, eyes red rimmed and his lips not quite steady.

It was real.

It had happened.

“No,” Lance whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as though that could make reality go away. “N-no.”

“Lance,” Hunk’s grip tightened on his hand. “Lance, _herm—”_

He broke off.

_Hermano._

Brother.

It had been one of the first words Hunk had learned all those years ago when they’d met; Lance and his family newly arrived from Cuba with maybe a handful of English words between them and Hunk the shy, quiet boy lingering on the outskirts and wishing for a friend. Despite the language barrier the two had become fast friends and while Hunk had helped Lance slowly pick up English he’d taught Hunk by exchange Spanish.

Hunk was an only child. He hadn’t had any friends before Lance. And to Lance who was used to sharing everything and including everyone it seemed only natural to bring Hunk into his family. He became his new brother and they’d grown up as such together.

But now…

Now it was a stark reminder of all of the siblings he had lost.

“Oh God, Lance, I’m so sorry. I’m,” Hunk swallowed heavily, throat clogged with tears as Lance let out a choked sob and turned his face into the pillow, “I’m so sorry.”

Hunk could not explain how sorry he felt; how deep his own grief when he’d learned what had happened.

He’d texted Lance Sunday morning (or, well, afternoon as he knew Lance loved to sleep in and definitely deserved to after his _best friend had won state_ and Lance had told them the family was going out for dinner to celebrate and wouldn’t be back home till late) and hadn’t thought too much of it when he didn’t get an immediate response back.

But come dinner hour and still nothing he’d sent another text.

It came back non-deliverable and it was then he realized his first one had never gone through.

Something cold had settled in his stomach and Hunk did his best to tamp it down. He knew he was a worrier, Lance teased him often about it, and he was no doubt blowing things out of proportion.

After another hour though, just before dinner, he’d made his way across the field that separated his subdivision from the stretch of homes Lance had grown up in. Shantytown, the nickname the kids had given it when it first went up, was not as run-down as then as those who lived there had taken great pains to care for their homes and yards, but it was still a far cry from the two and three-story homes Hunk saw.

The Esposito family home was dark. Hunk had spent a few minutes tapping on the door and then, when there was still no answer, had let himself in with the key Lance had given him years ago for emergencies.

In Hunk’s mind this was an emergency.

But no one was there.

And Hunk realized that Lance had never come home.

No one had.

He’d hurried back home to his computer, heart in his throat, and pulled up several news websites,maps from their town to Phoenix where Lance had gone to state.

He found a brief article about a fatal crash that had occurred late the previous evening two towns over. Shaking hands hands had clicked on the link.

There were no names, no identifying information except that three vehicles had been involved and there were multiple deaths. One of the vehicles had gone off into a reservoir lake after it was knocked from the roadway, through the guardrail, and down the embankment.

There was a sentence saying the accident was still under investigation and to check back with the news site for more updates as they became available.

There were comments though in the bottom of the article and Hunk, even knowing how dangerous and hurtful online commenters could be, clicked the read more.

There were a number of anticipated ones; people saying someone was probably drunk or texting. Extending condolences to the families involved.  

One user had linked to a social media photo gallery of rescue operations.

Hunk clicked it.

And the Esposito’s vehicle — a silver and blue minivan that Hunk knew the ins and outs of without a doubt — was shown being pulled from the lake, crumpled, dented and _how had anyone survived that crash?_

Hunk’s stomach had lurched.

And he vomited all over his keyboard.

He didn’t quite remember the full events that followed. He must have made enough noise because his mom came up, no doubt saw the also familiar van and the headline, and had yelled for his dad.

Hunk wound up somehow on the couch downstairs, wrapped in a blanket. His mom was making phone calls — Hunk had no idea who to — as he sat there in a numb daze.

Lance was…

No.

This couldn’t be real.

He’d just seen him the other morning to see him off for the meet. Lance had been all excitement mixed with a touch of nerves but hidden beneath a layer of bravado in front of his family, who had all come in to support him.

He’d told Hunk he had better start baking as he was going to expect some sort of cake for his gold medal win. When he’d texted Hunk later on Saturday with a picture of him flashing a medal with the largest grin, hair still damp, Hunk had screamed, twirled in a circle, and started on a gold medal ice cream cake because it was fitting.

Two more pictures had come along later; gold medal also in freestyle and silver in team relay, and Hunk had cried with sheer happiness at his best friend’s success. He knew how much Lance had worked for this; the hours of extra time spent at the school pool, the late nights as Lance stayed up to finish his homework and his struggles to keep up his grades so he remained on the team, all while working as a part-time barista on the weekends. No one deserved the win more than Lance.

All of Lance’s dreams were coming true.

Which meant that this...

This couldn’t be happening.

Hunk barely slept that night; no answers to be found except a cold dread and building grief that expelled itself via his weak stomach and large tears.

His mom let him stay home from school Monday. Katie, or Pidge as she insisted,  the freshman in all of Hunk’s AP mathematics classes and who he and Lance had taken under their wing so to speak, had texted him asking where he and Lance were and they better not have been up celebrating all Sunday without inviting her and they needed to get here as the school was celebrating the swim team’s wins and Lance was the guest of honor. Hunk hadn’t been able to respond.

Guilt rolled in him but he couldn’t pass that on to Pidge. Not yet. Not when he didn’t know all that had happened, and it sounded like neither did the school.

They all thought…

They still thought...

He’d been sick again.

Luis had contacted the Garrett family home late Monday morning. Hunk had never been so grateful his mom insisted on keeping the landline number.

Hunk hadn’t recognized the number but he’d felt a spark of _something_ in the dark cloud that had settled over him at the ringing from the family phone as he prayed and prayed that somehow, some way, Lance and his family were all right. That the fatality mentioned somehow only extended to the offending vehicle, of who police had released the name and DUI was being cited as the cause of the crash, even though Hunk knew fatalities was plural and the drunk driver had not had a passenger.

He didn’t want to believe.

Hunk knew Luis somewhat well; the oldest of Lance’s siblings and the father two Lance’s niece and nephew, and who had played both babysitter and chauffeur to many of his and Lance’s playtimes and adventures when they were younger.  Luis had been brief, his own tone sounding raw and broken. There’d been an accident, he relayed.

Lance was alive.

Hunk almost stopped breathing.

Lance was the lone survivor of his family’s car. He… he wasn’t doing well, Luis had whispered. Physically he would pull through; badly injured right leg, some cracked ribs and bruises and a concussion, but…

Hunk had understood.

Survivor’s guilt.

And knowing the way Lance often tried to shoulder blame, to take on the world’s problems so no one else would have to suffer…

Hunk knew without a doubt Lance was blaming himself for the crash.

For his family’s deaths.

They were at the Yavapai County Hospital, Luis relayed, about half an hour from their home of Paulden. Would Hunk be able to…?

Yes.

Absolutely.

He’d be right there.

He… he was so sorry.

Hunk’s mom had driven him as he didn’t feel capable of driving himself and they had met with Luis in the lobby.

He looked awful.

Bags under bloodshot eyes, bandages papered over his arms, beard unkept and wild. And despite the fact that Luis was more than fifteen years Hunk’s senior he had strode right over and wrapped his arms tightly about Lance’s oldest — only, he’d realized — sibling and squeezed.

It was about all he could offer. And he knew it wasn’t much but Lance had always told him they should patent his hugs because of how perfect they were and Luis looked like he really, really needed a hug.

Luis had hugged him back just as tight.

They hadn’t said much; Luis had directed him to Lance’s room where he was sleeping right now, under a mild sedative as he’d been… been more than distraught and the doctor’s had been worried by some of his words that he may harm himself, so…

They both knew how ridiculous that was and yet…

Yet Hunk knew grief, trauma, had ways of changing people.

He prayed that somehow Lance did not become one of those statistics.

He made a promise to himself that he would not let that happen.

His mom had walked with Luis towards the cafeteria, insisting he needed to eat, as Luis had barely slept since since _then_ and he needed to keep up his strength; for Lance, for Lisa, for the kids; the latter three of whom were at a hospital sponsored hotel a few minutes away and the kids finally resting.

Hunk had been signed in as a visitor and directed again to Lance’s room on the fifth floor. Lance had looked… looked so _small_ in the hospital bed, narrow as it was. He was wearing a light green hospital gown and tucked beneath a blanket save for his right leg, which was bound up in bandages and lightly suspended in front of him. Tubing extended from Lance’s left hand, lying atop the blanket, and snaked its way towards a stand with various bags, and bruises were darkening a patch of Lance’s forehead (concussion, Hunk remembered) and some more bandages were peeking out from the collar of his gown.

He was sleeping, although based on his furrowed brow it was not as restful as it should have been under the sedative. Hunk had slid into the uncomfortable chair at the bedside and picked up Lance’s right hand in his own; slender fingers dwarfed by his own large grip, and held it, rubbing his thumb in circles over it and relieved to see some of the tension sliding from Lance’s face.

Hunk had spent that time alternating between being so, so grateful that Lance was alive and falling back into his earlier despair because while Lance was alive the rest of his family _wasn’t_ and being alive did not mean okay.

Lance was not okay.

He was not going to be okay for a long, long time.

A minute ago Lance had started trembling, eyes flickering beneath closed lids, and Hunk knew that he was going to wake up.

He was both relieved and scared because Lance was coming back into this nightmare and this wasn’t something a hug could fix.

Not even close.

And Hunk didn’t know what to do.

What did anyone do in this situation?

Well, he discovered within a tick of opening his mouth, what _not_ to do.

_Hermano._

God he’d been so stupid.

Despite the fact that Lance had turned his face into the pillow, away from Hunk, he had not tried to pull his hand free and Hunk clutched it tightly, moreso as Lance’s shoulders shook and a muffled sob sounded.

Hunk tentatively lifted his other hand and placed it on the upturned shoulder.

“I…” he started.

What did he say?

Lance didn’t need more apologies. Doing so would only enforce those feelings of guilt to Lance and that was the last thing Hunk wanted.

He didn’t want pity and Hunk didn’t want to give it.

What…

What he needed was support.

“I’m… I’m here,” Hunk settled on. “I’m right here.”

Lance stilled.

A second later he was shifting, struggling to sit up, and Hunk went to release Lance’s hand but was surprised to feel Lance dig his fingers in, forcing them between Hunk’s own.

He managed to drag himself to a sit and tear-stained cheeks highlighted by watery ocean eyes met Hunk’s. And without any warning Lance shoved himself forward and Hunk lunged to standing to catch him before he toppled off the side of the bed, free arm coming around to wrap gently about Lance’s shoulder — broken ribs, be careful, he reminded himself — even though all he wanted to do was squeeze Lance to him and never let go.

“Hunk,” Lance whispered, face pressed into Hunk’s chest and Hunk could already feel his shirt becoming damp. “H-Hunk.”

“I’m right here,” Hunk said quietly, feeling Lance’s heart racing underneath their interlocked hands pressed between them. “I’m here.”

And Lance _sobbed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And oof, right in the feels. Poor Lance. Poor Hunk. With Hunk’s scene I really wanted to capture that horrible feeling of learning second-hand about a tragedy like this and that unknown factor as to what really happened. Thank goodness for landlines (I’m screwed xD, but I’m in a police database so someone can find me ;p)
> 
> Thank you for the warm reception despite the chilly, frigid, cold start to this fic. Bonus update for you as a reward ♥ Please do leave a comment below if you’re enjoying the story. I’d love to hear what you thought about the chapter. Thank you!


	3. Three

Lance couldn't go home.

Well, he could, technically.

But at the same time…

No, he couldn’t.

He couldn’t go into that house and know that Mamá and Papá weren’t in it, that they never would be again. He couldn’t go into his room where a set of bunk beds were still crammed in that had once belonged to Marco and Luis. He couldn’t pass the empty bedroom that had once been Rachel and Veronica’s. He couldn’t look at the photos that lined the hallway, of the large kitchen table squeezed in so they could all sit together as a family.

He just couldn’t.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

It hurt too much.

Even though he knew he deserved the pain (he’d done this, he’d killed them).

Luis had been made into his legal guardian as Lance was still seventeen for nearly six more months, but even then he knew his oldest — older — brother would insist on remaining so.

Lance might have protested a week ago under the idea he needed looked after; he wasn’t a baby, he could take care of himself, just because he was the youngest didn’t mean they could treat him like this.

But now…

Now he just nodded and accepted it and hadn’t offered any protest.

He was under no illusion that right now he absolutely could not take care of himself, and it wasn’t just because of his leg.

He just…

Didn’t want to.

He ate when the nurses told him to, he let them change the bandages on his leg, breathed deeply into their machine to make sure his lungs remained healthy (a fear from both the broken ribs and all of the water he’d inhaled), watched with dull eyes as they hooked up new bags of medicine (antibiotics and painkillers and he knew it was a light sedative at night and he couldn’t blame them because who wanted to be kept awake all night to him crying from nightmares?), and slept as much as he could because _his body needs to rest._

He would not though talk to the therapist they sent in, nor the second one nor the third.

In his defense he didn’t want to talk to anyone.

What did they want him to say? When he’d spoken to Luis he’d only upset him, made Luis _cry,_ and then he’d wound up drugged. They would insist the same as Luis that this wasn’t his fault, that it was okay to miss them, that he needed to let himself grieve.

Lance didn’t want to hear any of that.

So he kept quiet.

All he wanted to do was apologize, over and over and over, and Luis had said no more, and so Lance would try not to do so (even though he still was).

Hunk came by daily and tried to cajole him into talking about anything, but Lance couldn’t find it in him to do so. Hunk had eventually stopped trying and spoke instead for the both of them — and it was such a reversal that Lance felt something stab deep inside him — as though Lance was carrying on a conversation with him and otherwise just held Lance’s hand because Lance would admit to wanting that. Hugs were still technically no-gos because of his ribs (even though that rule had been broken on more than one occasion between Hunk, Luis and Lisa) but hand-holding was…

Was grounding.

Lance tended to clutch at the unfortunate limb with all of his strength just for something to hold on to.

Until then he’d remembered holding Rachel’s hand and the way it had grown limp and he’d wrenched his so quickly from Hunk’s the other boy had let out a yelp  and Lance hadn’t been able to say anything, just hunch over and sob.

All he seemed to do lately was cry.

That was two days ago now and since then he had kept his hands firmly in his lap or tucked under the covers. The therapist had tried to ask him about it but Lance had just turned away from him and pressed his face into the pillow until he’d finally left.

Now his family just put hands on his shoulder or stroked through his hair (carefully as he had a large bump still on the back of his head) and Lance knew he was hurting them even more but he couldn’t explain.

He didn’t want to remember.

He wanted to wake up (he was already awake).

And he was finding that life was still moving by whether he wanted it to or not.

Hunk had relayed quietly that the school knew what had… had happened. Lance’s social media accounts had reportedly been blowing up with messages of support and condolences and Lance’s swim team, spearheaded by his coach, had started up a fundraiser to help with expenses. It already had almost five thousand dollars from students and the community.

Lance hated that all he felt was a hollow ache.

He didn’t want any of that.

He just wanted his family (he couldn’t have them).

Pidge had wanted to visit, Hunk also told him, but he’d managed to convince her to… to wait for a while.

Lance was grateful, he thought. He didn’t want Pidge to see him like this.

It was why he hadn’t seen Sylvio and Nadia yet even though Lisa had told them they very much wanted to see him.

He felt bad that he was scaring them with his silence, but…

But he’d only scare them more if they saw him now. This was not their _Tío_ Lance, full of laughter and smiles and jokes and hug attacks.

He didn’t want them to see him like this.

He didn’t want to be like this.

He couldn’t seem to stop.

Hunk had brought cards by from school; students and teachers and staff.

Lance hadn’t been able to open any of them.

They were in a box on the windowsill.

Along with his medals.

One of the nurses had gone to give them back to him, returned by the police department after they’d been collected following… that, and Lance had numbly taken them from her.

As soon as she’d left he’d chucked them with all he had across the room. It had pulled something in his chest but the pain was nothing on the engraved surfaces staring up at him.

The murder weapon.

Luis had found them not even ten minutes later, taken in Lance’s heaving chest and tear-stained cheeks, picked them up and placed them in the box out of sight. Lance had no desire to ever see them again and planned to throw them away once he was able to.

The police should have kept them.

Still, he was trying not to cause trouble (even though that’s all he was).

Luis had enough on his plate. He was coordinating funeral arrangements, sifting through paperwork and lawyers and police all while trying to bottle his own grief for the sake of his family.

Mamá and Papá hadn’t had life insurance, Lance knew. None of them did (had) except Veronica.

Neither had the drunk driver. He hadn’t even had insurance and he had no family.

So the hospital bills were falling upon them and although they had insurance it was nowhere near enough to cover Lance’s extended stay, for the helicopter airlift, for all of the medications and surgery. Lance had heard Lisa quietly arguing with Luis over it when they thought he’d been asleep, that someone had to do something, it wasn’t _fair_ but there was no easy answer.

Lance had told Luis about the fundraiser, given him his coach’s phone number, and insisted that Luis use it for…for whatever he needed it most.

It was all he could do (it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough).

And now there was the issue with his residency. He was being discharged Friday afternoon and would be confined to a wheelchair for about five weeks while his ribs healed and then to crutches for about another three months, minimum, the doctors said as his break had not been clean and he’d made it worse ripping it open.

Lance would have given his leg if it meant that someone, anyone, had been able to live. If he’d just been able to get free he _knew_ he could have saved Rachel.

Instead he’d killed her.

They told him that although it would take a while still to heal it would do so in full and he would be able to return to swimming. Lance knew they meant it as good news, meant for it to uplift his spirits.

All it did was make his heart seize as anger and grief and sadness warred with one another.

He’d already made his decision.

Swimming had killed his family.

Therefore he would never swim again.

But that didn’t solve the current problem facing him and that was the fact Luis and Lisa lived in an apartment.

On the third floor.

With no elevator.

Even when he moved to crutches the climb would still be near impossible and incredibly dangerous besides. Luis was also outside town limits and Lance would need driven to school daily (the thought of going back though filled him with a hollow dread he couldn’t fully explain because everyone would only be kind but he didn’t want that, want their condolences or apologies or pity and he _knew_ that was all that awaited him) and both Luis and Lisa worked full time (Luis as a store manager, Lisa as an administrative assistant three towns over) and asking them to cut into their own work time (when they so, so badly needed the money ) was selfish.

Lance had already taken enough (he’d taken everything).

Luis had made the suggestion of he could stay with Lance at the house but Lance had shaken his head, a quiet denial.

No.

He couldn’t go back there.

He may not have a choice.

He had nowhere else to go.

And it was now Thursday evening and time was running out.

“Excuse me?” Hunk raised an eyebrow as Lance quietly relayed the problem, one of the first times he’d spoken since Monday. “Uh, yeah you do. My house.”

Lance’s eyes widened.

He shook his head a moment later. “No, I couldn’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Hunk interrupted him. “We’d… we’d be more than happy to have you, Lance. You know we would.”

Hot tears were stinging at Lance’s eyes and he shook his head again. He couldn’t ask the Garretts to do that.

Not for him.

“I’m gonna call my mom now,” Hunk said. “Well,” he gave a rueful grin, “in a few minutes, those nurses are a little uptight about the phones in here. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Hunk—”

“Uh uh, no,” Hunk held up a finger, nearly bumping Lance’s nose. Hunk tried to soften his expression as best he could as Lance looked… scared wasn’t quite right but hesitant, maybe. “Please,” Hunk moved his hand to carefully rest on Lance’s shoulder, so different from what he was used to with his normally what-is-personal-space? best friend. “I want to. Please let me?”

“I…” Lance’s throat bobbed and his eyes angled down. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

Hunk felt something in his stomach clench.

“You aren’t any trouble,” he said softly.

Lance just hunched his shoulders, gown shifting to reveal strips of bandages. After a moment he gave the barest of nods.

“Okay,” Hunk murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Lance sat in a pained silence during that time, not sure what it was he wanted.

Everything felt so… jumbled.

Cloudy.

_Wrong._

He just wanted to go _home_ but home had never been just the house. It had been his family.

And they could never go home again.

He didn’t want to cause the Garretts any trouble, and he knew he would. He wasn’t allowed to dispense his own medications (especially the antidepressants the doctors insisted he be on for at least the next few weeks and Lance felt a mixture of shame and despondency at being told he needed them and had just hung his head when Luis quietly told him of the prescription)  so Mr. and Mrs. Garrett would have to be in charge of that. They’d have to drive him to school, to the hospital for follow up appointments for his leg.

For… for counseling.

He winced.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone. It would be a waste all around and he didn’t want to waste the Garretts’ time.

He just wanted his family

He wanted things to go back to normal (they never would).

But Hunk was back in the room a few minutes later, a knowing look on his face that became the smallest smile when he met Lance’s gaze. “So long as it’s all right with Luis,” Hunk said, settling back in the uncomfortable chair.

“What is all right with me?” Luis strode into the room, face still tired although he greeted Hunk with a soft _“hola”_ that Hunk returned.

“Um, I asked my mom,” Hunk stood up, thumbs twiddling. “And she said it was fine, but only if you said it was fine, and I mean, I think it makes a lot of sense but it’s up to you—”

“Hunk, what is it?” Luis cut in gently.

“Lance can stay with us,” Hunk blurted out. “If, if—”

“If that is all right with Lance, then yes,” Luis cut in again, looking to Lance, who inclined his head in agreement.

Luis looked as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and his smile was a touch bright as he caught Hunk’s eye again. “ _Gracias,_ Hunk, _gracias a ti y tu familia.”_

_“Las gracias no son necesarias, pero de nada,”_ Hunk responded quietly, words slow but steady. “ _Estamos felices de ... hacer esto.”_

Luis crossed from the foot of the bed and pulled Hunk into a tight hug. _“Gracias,”_ he said again, breath warm on Hunk’s ear and beard ticklish against Hunk’s cheek.

Hunk squeezed him back just as tight.

It wasn’t much, not in the grand scheme of things. It was a small fix to a much, much larger problem.

But…

But it was a step forward and that was all they could ask for right now.

Hunk looked back to Lance, who had sunk against the pillows, eyes closed and head bowed and so _quiet._

They still had a long way to go.

But they would take it one step, one moment, at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forward progress :)
> 
> I missed seeing so many of your faces last chapter. Guess maybe bi-weekly updates are too much? It’s just going to be the one this week in any case as I will be out of state for my birthday / plus season eight dropping and as such no update next Tuesday either. I will aim to post on Friday, December 21, and we’ll be moving to Friday updates for a couple weeks as Christmas is sort of smack in there. Whoops.
> 
> If you’re enjoying the fic please leave a comment. Comments make for happy authors and happy authors make for more fics ♥ Thank you!


	4. Four

Sunday dawned bright and crisp with pale February sunshine streaming in and lighting up the guest bedroom Lance had taken up residence in.

He rolled over as best he could, chest aching in more ways than one.

Today was the funeral.

He didn’t want to go.

He needed to go.

He couldn’t go.

He had to go.

He pressed his face into pillow as though he could hide away from the day and all it represented.

He knew they were dead. He did.

But this…

This was so _final._

Literally the final nail in the coffin.

He shuddered and bit back the sob working its way out.

Luis was going to come by about nine with Lisa and the kids.

It would be the first time Lance saw them since the dinner over a week ago.

It seemed so, so much longer than a week. Years, maybe.

He had to pull himself together.

Somewhat.

For them.

For…

For everyone else too.

He knew the funeral was going to be well attended; Rachel had friends flying in from her college, Marco’s friends and co-workers would be there and the same with Veronica’s. That wasn’t to mention that Hunk had relayed that Lance’s teammates would be there, Pidge of course, and a number of his other friends and classmates to support them along with their families. Add in members of their church and some of Papá’s employees from the store and then some of Luis and Lisa’s friends…

There would be _so_ many people and Lance still couldn’t even face opening up cards or the fundraiser page or his social media accounts.

He didn’t want to do this.

But…

But everyone deserved a chance to say a final goodbye. He couldn’t begrudge anyone that.

He least of all.

He was the reason they all had to do so.

A firm knock sounded on the door and a moment later it opened, bringing with it the scent of frying bacon and the sound of someone clinking about in the kitchen down the hall.

“Lance,” Mrs. Garrett called softly.

He kept his face pressed into the pillow and hands tight on the comforter. The bed dipped and a large, warm hand descended on his raised shoulder.

She said nothing.

Lance felt tears sting anyway. He’d been more prone to crying since he’d started the antidepressants, which he blamed mostly on the lack of sleep that they had caused because he had no real right to cry anymore, not when he had been the cause of so, so many other tears. The doctors had warned him about that, said some side effects from the drugs might not be avoidable, and both fatigue and nausea had been hitting Lance hard.

He was fine with that. He deserved it.

It also meant he could avoid seeing the Garretts together because even though it shouldn’t — it _didn’t_ — he felt sick jealousy burn inside him when Mrs. Garrett  pulled Hunk into a hug or Mr. Garrett draped an arm about his son’s shoulders because he had a mom and a dad and Lance…

Lance didn’t.

That only made him feel worse that he could even _think_ something like that and then the nausea had come on full force and he’d spent most of Friday and Saturday lying in bed with a bowl and wracked with guilt and chills and just wishing for _his_ mamá to be there to run a hand through his hair and tell him it was going to be all right.  

“I can’t say I personally know what you are feeling,” she said quietly after a few moments, the faint sounds of the kitchen in the background. “But I do know how hard this must be.”

Lance let out a muffled sniffle.

“I know you haven’t been feeling well either,” she continued. “And today is… today is going to be hard.”

The biggest understatement Lance had ever heard.

“We can arrange for the priest to come beforehand,” she said softly. “If you do not want to go to the service.”

Lance shifted over at that, denial on his lips.

“No,” he whispered. “I… I have to go.”

Mrs. Garrett’s brown eyes were warm as she met his gaze. “Only if you want to, sweetie.”

Lance gave a short nod.

“All right,” she squeezed his shoulder. “Just know we’ll be there, okay? If you need to go, or step out, just say the word.”

Lance’s throat was tight again and so he nodded.

“Good. Then let’s get you up, hm? I’ve got your medicine here and I’ll get Hunk in a few minutes.”

Lance tried to hide his wince at the mention of the medication. The light painkiller he didn’t mind so much, nor the one to help prevent infection from his weakened lungs, but the green and yellow capsule made him feel awful, both physically and mentally for what it represented.

He always felt so…

So _weak._ As though they were worried he’d…

He’d never. _Never._ Maybe he thought he should have died too, shouldn’t have survived, but…

But he’d never do that. He’d never do that to Luis.

He would not become another body to bury.

Mrs. Garrett caught it though and she patted his shoulder in understanding. “It’s not for forever, sweetheart. And some of the side effects should clear up soon. Just…” her hand tightened. “Just bear with it for a little longer.”

Lance managed a nod and then made to sit up, Mrs. Garrett removing her hand and letting him do so on his own even though the increased strain made his chest hurt more. He swallowed the pills with the cup of water she’d brought and she gave his left knee a pat under the blankets.

Lance had a minute to collect himself, scrubbing a pajama clad hand across his face, before Hunk arrived to assist him with getting to the bathroom down the hall and prepping his leg for the shower; carefully removing the air cast and boot and plastic-wrapping all of the bandages from the surgery to piece his bones together and sew up mangled flesh.

They left the wheelchair behind for now.

Lance _hated_ the wheelchair.

It was a constant reminder to not only himself but to everyone else of what had happened, that he’d been too _weak_ to save anyone (except himself). He had to let someone else push him as the doctors had said they didn’t want him straining both his ribs or his lungs and so he was forced to be immobile; he couldn’t put any weight on his right leg either and when he’d tried to hobble had ended up falling over (fortunately onto the bed).

He was going to have to use it today. Hunk had been acting as his crutch for moving between the guest room (his room) and the bathroom but that wouldn’t be possible for the funeral and Lance tired already from just that short jaunt.

“Your balance okay?” Hunk hovered as Lance gingerly stepped into the shower.

Lance gave a small nod.

“Okay.” Hunk fidgeted but then nodded. “Okay,” he said as though to himself. “I’ll just be outside then. Um, just shout if you need anything.”

“ _Gracias,_ Hunk,” Lance said quietly.

He needed to get back into the habit of speaking. At least for today.

Hunk flashed him one last, worried smile and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Lance normally loved showers, loved the water.

This time he went as quick as he could.

The shower stream wasn’t anything like the water from then, hot, not cold, gentle, not suffocating, but…

But water was no longer comforting in the slightest.

He hurried through the shower and then a quick teeth brushing, awkwardly holding himself against the counter with a towel wrapped around his hips and bruises (no more bandages, his ribs needed to heal without pressure) decorating his entire torso.

He did his best not to look at them.

(seatbelt, door, console, CPR that saved only him…)

He didn’t get dressed in his suit, not yet. Instead Hunk helped him into a pair of clean sweatpants and then a loose tee shirt and then into the wheelchair to go to the kitchen.

Lance wasn’t hungry — both guilt and medication — but he tried his best to eat the piece of toast with blackberry jam (his favorite) Hunk put in front of him because today was going to be awful but it would be moreso if he fainted.

Every bite tasted like chalk.

The doorbell rang and Lance’s stomach clenched around the toast as he heard Luis’ timbre and then Lisa’s softer voice.

They were here.

The kids would be here too.

Nadia didn’t entirely understand, Luis had relayed quietly. At just four years old she didn’t  comprehend the concept of “gone” in terms of forever. Sylvio though…

Lance’s seven-year-old nephew appeared in the kitchen, dressed in a small black suit, and dark eyes widening as he caught sight of Lance, a barely there whisper of _Tío_ on his lips. He beelined immediately for Lance and before Lance could say or do anything he was climbing into his lap and encircling small hands about Lance’s neck, dragging him down.

Lance didn’t even notice the pain as his own arms moved to hug Sylvio in close.

 _“¿Estás bien?”_ Sylvio whispered.

Lance’s throat felt tight.

He didn’t know what he should say.

“No,” came the choked reply he didn’t give permission for.

Sylvio’s arms tightened. “ _Yo tampoco.”_

A moment later Lance felt a hand descending on his head — Lisa — and a larger one — Luis — on his shoulder.

“ _Tío_ Lance?” sounded a small voice and Lance felt small fingers curl into his pants leg rolled up above the cast. “You have a boo boo. Does it hurt?”

Yes.

In so many ways.

“ _Sí,”_ Lance managed out past the lump. He shifted one hand to settle in Nadia’s hair.

He couldn’t say anything else.

Nadia moved then, a rustle of her dress, and Lance heard an exaggerated kissing sound and the barest pressure on his cast. “There. Kisses make it better,” she told him. “I kissed mommy’s too and she said it felt better. Does… does it feel better, _Tío_ Lance?”

“It… it does,” Lance choked out, heart feeling like it was breaking and mending in the same instant. “ _Gr-gracias,_ Nadia.”

“Let’s let your uncle get ready now,” Lisa said gently a few moments later. “Come along.”

Lisa ushered Nadia away, Luis assisted Sylvio in getting off of Lance’s lap, and the kitchen was then just him, Hunk and Luis.

“I’ll… I’m gonna get dressed too,” Hunk said, excusing himself.

Lance needed his real brother right now and he didn’t want to intrude.

“Hunk?” Lance lifted his head and caught the dark honey gaze. “ _Gracias. Hermano.”_

It was the first time Lance had called him such since the accident and Hunk felt something warm bloom in his chest.

 _“De nada, hermano,”_ he murmured back.

He left then to hear Luis saying something quietly to Lance and the two dark heads pressed together, Luis’ hand drawing Lance in and Lance’s shoulders shaking.

Hunk hated seeing Lance like this.

There was little he could do about it.

Lance…

Lance wouldn’t talk to him.

Hunk tried not to feel the familiar pulse of hurt at the thought. Lance didn’t want to talk to _anyone,_ it wasn’t just him. But the two of them shared _everything,_ always. Hunk knew this wasn’t the same, not close to it, of what they used to talk about.

But he’d heard Lance crying in his sleep. His broken words as he hunched over the large bowl and expelled both what little contents of his stomach he had and sobs. He’d heard pleas and prayers and choking gasps and all he could do in those moments was place a hand on Lance’s arm, rub his back, and let him know he was there.

Lance would apologize, over and over, thank him too, but not say anything else.

Hearing him admit to Sylvio that he wasn’t okay was the closest he’d gotten to talking about his feelings.

Hunk prayed it continued.

Lance _couldn’t_ keep things bottled like he had been. It wasn’t healthy. He knew the medication was right now making Lance physically feel worse (he couldn’t help it, he’d read over the doctor’s notes and prescriptions Luis had given his mom the moment he’d had the chance to do so because he _needed_ to know so he could help Lance in the best way he could) and would likely do so for some time. He knew from the notes that Lance didn’t want to talk to the therapists.

But he needed to talk to _someone._

And as much as it hurt Hunk that that person might not be him, he’d be okay with that, he thought.

He hoped.

He just wanted Lance to talk to _anyone._

Hunk changed slowly, pulling on the stiff formal jacket and untying his headband. He looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked sad.

He wondered if that’s how he’d been appearing to Lance.

A knock sounded on his doorframe and his dad poked his head in, dressed nearly identical although his tie was a navy instead of Hunk’s dark purple. “All set?”

“Yeah,” Hunk turned away from the mirror.

As if anyone could ever be ready for something like this.

Large arms opened wide and Hunk sank into the hug with a low sob.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered.

“I know,” was the soft response. “I know.”

Hunk’s arms tightened about his dad. Just knowing that Lance could never hug his own dad again, never hear his voice, his calm reassurances…

Hunk blinked rapidly to clear away the tears.

“We need to get headed to the church,” his dad continued quietly.

Luis had asked if they would help in seating people and the Garretts had of course agreed. The funeral ceremony wasn’t set to go off for almost two more hours but there would be  a lot of attendees. The service was going to be closed casket, per Luis’ wishes, but the Espositos (minus Nadia, who his mom was going to watch) were going to a viewing beforehand.

Hunk couldn’t even imagine what that had to be like.

It was why he forced himself to straighten up, brush away the tears that had escaped, and head back downstairs to where Lance was leaning against Luis in the foyer before he got into the wheelchair at the bottom of the two-step front entry for the rental car.

Lance was clothed in a black suit, white dress shirt peeking out from his hunched position, and one pants leg neatly rolled and pinned above the large cast (no doubt they’d had to remove it to get the pants on first).

He looked so tired.

Hunk felt a familiar pang of uselessness hit him.

He wanted to fix it.

He didn’t know how.

“Lance?” he called out gently, and red-rimmed ocean eyes lifted up. Hunk crossed the few feet between them and put a careful hand on Lance’s shoulder just to the side of Luis’ grip. “We’re going to head over,” he said. “I’ll… I’ll see you there, okay?”

“‘kay.”

Hunk turned his gaze to Luis, whose eyes were similarly red but they were steady. “If, if there’s anything you need…”

 _“Gracias,_ Hunk,” was the soft reply.

Hunk nodded, squeezed Lance’s shoulder, and then hurried towards the garage where his dad already was and Lisa was buckling Nadia into the carseat she had loaned them, the little girl more somber than normal as though sensing the mood about her.

“Ready, sweetheart?” his mom asked, coming up behind him and dressed in a long navy dress and matching jacket.

Hunk nodded.

She smoothed down his jacket lapels. Normally this is where she would tell him how handsome he looked and press kisses on his cheeks, but this time she just tweaked his tie, patted his shoulder in knowing and went to get into the passenger seat.

Hunk slid into the backseat opposite Nadia and buckled in for the twenty minute drive.

It was both the longest and shortest ride he’d ever been on.

And as they started up the steps of the church, Nadia’s hand dwarfed by his own, Hunk wished it had been longer.

Because this was it. This was the last time Lance would see his family’s faces. This was where Lance had to accept, truly, that they… that they were gone and they were never coming back.

And Hunk felt his heart shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing that scene with Nadia broke my heart. _Dios._ Anyone else need some tissues? Pack plenty, we’ve got the funeral next chapter :D Despite the somber mood of the fic and the content I do hope you’re all enjoying it. And to those wondering, we will encounter a member of the main cast (two, actually!) next chapter. That said, I am putting updates on hold until 2019 as readership has dwindled with the holidays/vacation/school finals and this way you can concentrate on those things and not have to play catch up (and I do not become as sad xD). So this fic will next update on Tuesday, January 8 :) Self promo if you'd like some more content (with living Lance family members xD) I've got a little oneshot of Lance and Veronica bonding titled _[Role of a Paladin, Role of a Brother](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17078708)_ that would love a little love ♥
> 
> As always, please do leave a comment below. I really really appreciate hearing from you ♥ (also, no S8 discussions in comments please. Spoiler free zone.)


	5. Five

Lance spent the entire twenty minute drive to the church trying outwardly not to panic even as he felt like he was about to pass out and his grip was white knuckled on both the door handle and on the seatbelt release.

This was his first time (aware, as he’d been feeling so sick leaving the hospital he didn’t remember anything of the trip) of being in a car since…

Since _then_.

Lisa ended up getting out of the car at a stoplight, squeezing in past Sylvio, who was sitting on the far right, and settling into the middle seat between the two boys and wrapping her one good hand about Lance’s upper arm.

It was grounding.

If was also terrifying because the last time someone had sat so close with him in a vehicle…

It was almost a relief to get to the church until Lance remembered _why_ they were there.

Luis ended up _carrying_ him into the building and Lance had felt embarrassment dusting his cheeks but he also couldn’t bring himself to let go of where he’d dug his hands into Luis’ jacket when he tried to lower him into the wheelchair. It had only been Sylvio’s soft inquiry to Lisa if _Tío_ Lance was okay that forced Lance to let go.

He was scaring Sylvio.

He could at least try and avoid doing that.

That resolve wavered as they entered the viewing room with five caskets set up on the dais.

His family.

They were so _still._

Rachel — hand going limp, hair floating, scared eyes slipping closed, _it’s gonna be okay, t-te quiero, I love—_ was clothed in the dress she’d saved and bought for Christmas just a few months ago; a bright, flirty red cut that fit his sister perfectly. Her hair had been elegantly styled and makeup giving color to her cheeks and lips — tinged blue, so cold, parted open — that he could almost pretend she was just sleeping.

Almost.

She wasn’t.

She was dead.

Marco — blood on his neck, hair matted to the side of his head beneath cracked glass, water pouring in — was next to her, dressed in an Arizona Cardinals jersey. Lance let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob because of _course_ Marco would be buried in that, his love of football and their home team near legendary in the family. His hands, always moving, poking, prodding, were folded across his chest, interlocked.

It was wrong.

Veronica — slumped, seatbelt digging into her cheek, chest barely rising before it didn’t anymore — was in her NASA dress uniform; sharp military style cut to the organization she had been _so_ proud of getting into, had proved herself one of the best even after just a few years. Her hair was gently curled, framing the glasses he’d teased made her look smart and she’d put him in a headlock and tell him she _was_ smart, _you brat._

Papá — eyes glassy, neck twisted, laughing just a moment ago, s _e amable con tu hermanito —_ was in his Sunday best, neck angled the way it should go and an almost smile to his moustache.  

His gaze cut to the right to the last casket.

Mamá — bloodied arm, hidden behind the deployed airbag, a breathless gasp, cut off prayer of _Dio_ — was in her favorite floral dress, the one Lance and his siblings had bought for her the other year. She looked… peaceful. Still.

Mamá was never that peaceful. She was always running about the kitchen, waving a spoon and laughing and talking with her hands and this…

This couldn’t be…

No.

Lance closed blurry eyes, praying when he reopened them this wouldn’t be real.

They were still there.

Still dead.

He choked on his next breath.

Luis was kneeling in front of him then, gathering Lance’s hands inside his own (not threading their fingers, just holding them tight) and blocking the sight to Mamá’s casket.

“Lance, Lancito, _miráme_ ,” he commanded gently as Lance let out another sob and shook his head, leaning forward instead and pressing his face into Luis’ jacket.

He was ruining it with his tears.

Luis didn’t pull away, just held his hands tighter.

“ _Están muertos_ ,” Lance whispered, words muffled.

It was the first time he’d said it out loud.

His heart ached.

“ _Están… están muer-t-tos.”_

He felt it break.

Shatter.

This was real.

Really real.

“ _Yo sé_ ,” Luis murmured.

“ _Están muertos,”_ Lance repeated.

The words he’d kept locked inside since his first confession began to spill forth again. _“Hice esto. Los maté. Hice esto. Lo siento. Lo siento lo siento lo siento—”_

“Lance, no. _Deja de decir eso.”_

“ _Los maté. Hice es—”_

_“_ No.” Luis’ voice was hard. “No,” he said again, softer. His hands unclasped from Lance’s and pushed instead on shaking shoulders, forcing Lance to sit back in the chair and then they were there, cupping his face and tipping it up to meet Luis’ gaze, eyes the same shade of brown as Papá’s. “ _No más. No más disculpas. Esto ... esto no es tu culpa. Por favor, creéme.”_

Lance wished he could.

But he knew.

The guilt wouldn’t let him forget, the ever roiling feeling in his gut.

It was because of him they were all in that car, because of him they’d left late.

Because of him they were dead.

But he bit back the vomit — acid bile and words — and forced himself to incline his head in Luis’ grip.

Luis didn’t need this.

Luis let out a shuddering sounding sigh and Lance was pulled then into a hug, cheek smushed against Luis’ now becoming wrinkled as well as tear-stained suit jacket. Lance wrapped his arms around the broad back and hugged back even as his chest twinged in protest.

Sylvio was there a moment later, squeezing under his dad’s arm and burying his own face into Lance’s chest and Lisa’s good hand and weight pressed against his back over the chair.

The rest of the time in the viewing room passed in a blur.

Luis wheeled him to each casket for a few minutes to let him say his goodbyes in private. Lance had made the mistake of reaching out to Mamá’s cheek, rosy pink under the makeup.

Cold flesh.

Dead flesh.

Cold water and it was rising and there was screaming and they were drowning and—

He’d yanked his hand back with a low moan.

He hadn’t known what to say.

How was he supposed to say good bye?

He apologized to each of them, multiple times. He told them he loved them.

He missed them.

So, so much.

At some point he’d been wheeled out of the viewing room and into the church and Luis had helped him maneuver from the wheelchair into a pew. Luis had left then, acting as one of the pallbearers along with Hunk and Mr. Garrett and a number of Marco’s friends and some of Veronica’s co-workers.

Lance had purposefully faced forward as he heard the church start to fill in behind him as he couldn’t look at them right now or he would start crying again at the pity on their faces. Lisa had sat on his one side and Lance had left the spot next to him empty for Luis but before Luis was to arrive someone else slipped in.

Lance turned, not sure how to ask them to leave, but his eyes had widened as Pidge looked back at him. She was in a black dress, long hair pulled back with a black headband and her face was pulled into the saddest expression he’d ever seen her make.

“Hey,” she’d murmured. And she didn’t go to pick up his hand — she and Hunk must have talked at some point and he wasn’t sure what to make of that — but instead linked one of her arms through his and rested her head on his shoulder.

She was warm.

Lance focused on that, of the soft scent of her mango shampoo and the way the flower on her headband bumped against his chin whenever he exhaled too heavily.

He could feel tears stinging his eyes again and he’d definitely bit his lip. Pidge normally would have made some remark by now but not today. All she did was tug his arm closer, her thumb tracing the stitching on his sleeve.

She sat silently with him as the pallbearers brought in the closed caskets and then after one last squeeze to his arm had vacated the spot as Luis arrived and Lance had turned to watch where she went.

He’d been shocked to find the church nearly filled.

He’d wrenched his head back around before he could make out individual faces.

He didn’t remember much of the ceremony.

The priest had spoken, given a blessing. Luis had gone up and spoken quietly but strongly about each of his family members and how they were off to an eternal, peaceful rest. He thanked God for saving his youngest brother, for not taking him from them.

Lance had had to bite down on his lip again when Luis caught his eyes and the scene had blurred with tears.

He thanked the community for their love and support. He thanked Lisa for being his rock, he thanked God again for his and his wife and children’s safety.

Luis had asked Lance earlier if he’d like to say anything, but Lance had declined. He knew if he went up there all he was going to do was cry and he was proven right as his throat was too tight during the entire ceremony and his eyes constantly wet.

His words were gone again and Lance didn’t even feel the pain of their loss.

They had nothing on the pain stabbing continually into his heart.

Somehow they’d left the church — Lance knew he’d been put back in the wheelchair but he didn’t remember getting in and out of it — and traveled to the cemetery a couple miles away.

Hunk rode with him that time, squeezed in next to Sylvio and Nadia still riding with Hunk’s parents. He hadn’t said anything, just looped an arm about Lance’s shoulders and tugged him to rest on his chest.

Lance had spent the entire time rigid and tense as Rachel had done the same thing just before they…

He kept waiting to crash again but he was too tired to push Hunk away and honestly he didn’t want to.

He felt so cold.

Hunk was so warm.

He felt guilty leeching Hunk’s heat like that — when the rest of his family was so cold, permanently cold — but he couldn’t pull away.

Not this time.

The cemetery wasn’t very wheelchair accessible so Lance ended up with his left arm looped about Hunk’s neck and Hunk’s arm tight about his waist to where Hunk wasn’t quite carrying him but he was bearing nearly all of Lance’s weight. He remained there, solid, steady, during the final rites as the caskets were lowered into the ground.

Luis took over then as his crutch as they went to each grave to place a rose.

Lance was grateful for the pain that was starting to make itself known as his chest and shoulders and ribs ached from the constant handling and his leg had begun to throb because he could focus on that rather than the grief choking him and making him want to throw himself down into the graves with his family.

It should be him being buried in earth.

Being drowned a second time under cold dirt.

It was too similar to before.

And he was just as useless now as he had been then, unable to help bury them even though the thought of adding to the pile, to that darkness and pressure, made his stomach roll.

Within twenty minutes it was over.

Done.

Just like that.

Five mounds of freshly turned dirt beneath headstones that depicted their names, birth and death dates — and they were so _young,_ it was _wrong_ — and an inscription of either loving mother, father, brother or sister depending on the grave.

Lance hung back as the congregation began to move forward to offer condolences, keeping his head down and pressed against Hunk’s shoulder.

He was trembling and not just from the continued standing and pain.

Hunk seemed to understand, as did Luis, and no one approached him.

Until someone did, a hand landing gently atop his shoulder.

Too large, too high up to be Pidge.

Lance turned his head slightly, knowing that Hunk would have approved whoever this person was as someone more than just a casual friend or community member.

Warm charcoal eyes looked down at him.

Shiro.

His swimming coach and physics teacher. Someone Lance had admired for _years_ as not only was Shiro an incredibly accomplished swimmer (three time Olympic gold medalist) he was in the process of obtaining his licensure to be a _pilot_ for NASA while he taught “for fun” he said as a way to keep busy in the meantime and pass on his love of swimming and space to a new generation.

Lance didn’t want to flippantly use the term hero but Takashi Shirogane had been his idol since he’d seen him on television years ago winning his first medal and it had only grown. He’d almost fainted when he found that somehow the universe dropped Shiro off at his high school to be a teacher during his junior year.

He had fainted when he found out Shiro was going to be his coach.

Ryan Kinkade, fellow now senior and swimmer, had had to fish him out of the pool and the team never let Lance forget.

“Hey, buddy,” Shiro’s voice was low, gentle, dragging him back to the present.

Lance didn’t know what to say.

Shiro seemed to understand, his hand giving Lance’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“We’ve missed you,” he said in that still soft cadence, “and whenever you feel up to it… know that we’ll be there. _I’ll_ be there. Whatever I can do…” his hand squeezed again.

Lance managed a jerking sort of nod.

His throat felt clogged again and his eyes were stinging.

There was nothing Shiro could give him that he really wanted, but…

But he appreciated it all the same. And he knew, coming from Shiro, it was not an empty platitude or offer. He meant it.

He’d already done so much.

Lance should say thank you. He owed Shiro at least that.

He swallowed past the lump.

“Um,” he tried, the words still stuck. “Um. _Gr… gracias._ For, for the fundra—”

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” Shiro interrupted, gently though. “But… but I’m glad it could help.”

It had done more than helped. Donations had swelled to almost ten thousand dollars and under Lance’s insistence and pleas (he didn’t want a penny of it, he couldn’t take it, that blood money) Luis had put all of it into the funeral. They were still thousands of dollars short even accounting for Papá and Mamá’s savings they’d had. Veronica’s life insurance was currently tied up as her beneficiaries had been Mamá and Rachel and it was another headache Luis was trying to solve that he’d told Lance, when he’d caught sight of the forms during a hospital visit, to not worry about.

Lance couldn’t do anything but.

That still didn’t include the hospital bills and medications and post-treatment and their insurance, while covering a lot of it, was still also thousands short and it would only grow.

Another reason Lance thought not to talk to any of the therapists. They couldn’t afford it even though Luis had told him, begged him, that that was a cost they could afford.

Lance still refused.

He didn’t need to.

He didn’t want to.

And so he wouldn’t.

And then there were Lance’s regular expenses. They’d cleaned out the family savings already and Lance couldn’t work as he was (nor would his part-time job really do anything of note) and with the accident and his decision to never swim again he could kiss the scholarship to GGU away.

Lance honestly wasn’t sure he even wanted to go to college anymore.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

(He just wanted his family back).

He became aware that the conversation had moved on without him as Shiro was talking and Hunk was responding and he forced himself to try and tune back in.

“—chair for a while, but hopefully not too long. Especially with the school’s layout.”

Shiro winced. “Yeah, definitely not one of the better designed buildings I’ve seen. How many classes upstairs, do you know, does—?”

“Two; yours and Professor Ryner’s English class. And of course, opposite ends of the day.”

“Of course,” Shiro let out a sympathetic huff. He seemed to feel Lance’s eyes back on him and his face gentled back into a smile. Lance forced himself not to duck his head at both the stare and realizing they’d been talking about him.

“I hope to see you again soon, Lance,” Shiro said, squeezing his shoulder once more. “But there’s no rush. Whenever you’re ready, okay?”

Lance nodded.

He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready to return to school.

There was only so much longer he knew he could put it off. Even if he didn’t go to college he did have to graduate high school.

Mamá and Papá would never forgive him if he didn’t and he couldn’t do that to them.

Or, well, their memory.

Shiro gave him one last smile and then  moved away.

Lance pressed his face back against Hunk’s shoulder to hide it.

He left it there, hiding away from everything and slumping more and more against Hunk, leg trembling beneath him and exhaustion settling in, until Luis quietly called that it was time to go.

Everyone had left except for them and the Garretts.

They slowly picked their way out of the cemetery, Luis scooping Lance into his arms after a staggered step with a murmur of comfort and a kiss pressed to the top of his head.

From his new seat Lance looked past and over Luis’ shoulder, the freshly made graves bobbing in his sight.

He was leaving.

They were not.

He stared at them until they disappeared from view.

And even then he still saw them in his mind; five headstones, five graves, five members of his family dead and buried because of him.

There…

There should have been a sixth.

The thought echoed long after they’d left the cemetery.

There should have been six.

But there weren’t.

There wouldn’t be. He knew that much.

But otherwise…

He didn’t know anything except that the hollow ache was growing in his chest and he had no idea how to fix it.

He…

He wasn’t sure he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting off the new year with heavy hitting, oof. Tissues available for anyone who needs one ♥ All that said, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Emotional angst and grief is my particular cup of tea and coupling that with all the support shown for Lance makes me feel all warm (from both hellfire and the warm fuzzies). And hey, we met Pidge and Shiro and we’ve got the rest of the cast coming up next chapter (you know, only a few before this fic ends ;p).
> 
> Please do leave a comment before you go. I love to hear from you; favorite line, scene, dialogue, feeling… please show some author appreciation as we appreciate you!


	6. Six

Wednesday had rolled around and with it had come school.

Luis had made the decision for him, saying it would be good for Lance to return, to have something to busy himself with.

Beneath the words had been clear concern, of _fear,_ because Lance had shown no interest in doing _anything_ since the funeral. He spent his days curled up in bed, only getting up for dinner with the Garretts (where he shoveled food around his plate and ate what he could silently) and bathroom breaks, and nothing Mrs. Garrett or Hunk said or did could rouse him otherwise. Pidge had even come over once to try, video game system in hand, but ended up just sitting quietly with him before maneuvering into the bed and hugging him from behind. Hunk hugged him regularly as well and sometimes Lance was able to return it, or at least clench Hunk’s shirt in white-knuckled hands, and Hunk would fill up the silence with random news from school or commentary on whatever came to mind.

They’d all tried several more times to ask him to talk, to them or a therapist, but Lance had refused with a shake of his head.

The antidepressants were still making him nauseated and fatigued and now had the added bonus of dizziness and a general haziness to his thoughts, although that could also be attributed to the fact he wasn’t eating much and spent most of his time lying down.

Lance told himself he deserved it. He shouldn’t be comfortable, be happy, after what he’d done.

He knew it wasn’t healthy. He really did.

But he couldn’t stop.

It was a spiral and he couldn’t break free of it.

Maybe if everyone hadn’t been so understanding, so kind. Maybe if they’d told him to suck it up, like Veronica would have, or fixed him with Mamá’s disappointed look that would make anyone feel immediately guilty and resolve to do better, or even yelled at him like Marco when he got exasperated with Lance’s dramatics, he’d have been jolted out of it.

But they hadn’t and Lance couldn’t even blame them for it. It wasn’t their responsibility to fix him.

Especially when he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

He’d tried asking on Monday evening (pleading, really, in one of his clearer bouts where the fuzziness had receded after he’d eaten) with Luis when he’d come by after dinner if they could stop the medication — it was making it _worse,_ not better — but Luis had shaken his head and said no.

Lance knew he meant well. He knew the doctors did.

But it wasn’t working. Not the way they wanted it to.

He wasn’t depressed, he’d insisted. He was…

He didn’t know what he was.

No.

That was a lie.

He knew.

He was suffering from survivor’s guilt, diagnosed by the doctors, and knowing its name, knowing that the feeling was real, did nothing to help him. It was eating him up but Luis, Hunk, no one wanted his apologies. Not for the crash. The deaths. The inconvenience. The constant level of care. It churned worse when he saw all that Luis was dealing with, dealing with him now and his problems, and he still couldn’t do anything to help.

He was the cause of everything.

They wanted him to feel better, they said. They wanted him to smile again. They wanted him to _talk_ to them, to express his feelings. The medication would help, Luis said, parroting the doctors. It was a lower-level SSRI, just meant to help increase his serotonin levels (and the explanation following about neurotransmitters and inhibitors and all of the medical jargon just made Lance’s head hurt) so as to regulate his mood so he could process better because Lance…

Lance wasn’t processing. He was withdrawing, pulling away, still insisting he was at fault (he was), and not coping, and given his earlier statements (even though Lance had told Luis he wasn’t suicidal, he _wasn’t)_ the concern was still there and was an added precaution, just for now Luis had said.

Just until Lance could talk to someone (and this was supposed to help him find the balance to do so) and start _living_ again.

But Lance didn’t want to. Because he _was_ responsible and nothing they said would take away that feeling (and he didn’t want them to).

He should suffer. That was his cost of living when everyone else had died.

Not only that but he just felt so tired all the time (of which he knew the medication was only partially responsible for) that the effort it would take to do anything was too much. Even crying was too exhausting.

And now they wanted him to go to school.

So here he was, being dropped off at the front door by Mrs. Garrett and Hunk had already unloaded his wheelchair and the only saving grace was that it was _cold_ today and students were racing for the doors and not paying them any mind.

Lance knew that would change once he got into the building.

He still didn’t know how he should act.

He couldn’t find the energy to care.

He wouldn’t say he was ever popular but he’d always been well-liked (or so he thought); Hunk was his best friend and Pidge had wormed her way in even though he’d only known her for a year and a half now, but otherwise he kept mostly acquaintances with a deeper friendship allotted to most of the swim team. He was known for his sunny personality, his smiles and laughs and cheerfulness no matter the situation, even though when he was out of the public eye he’d find himself more reflective, wondering if people really actually _liked_ him or if he just imagined that they did. He worried too constantly about his grades, that even with all his efforts and Hunk and Pidge’s help weren’t always the best, if he really was the “dumb” one of his siblings, and what that would mean for college.

He’d been gone for over a week now and he didn’t even want to think of all the things he’d missed. He didn’t have the energy to catch up and when he thought about it the constant nausea just churned harder.

And now he was being faced with all of his classmates who he knew would only want to help him but all of the concern, the care… it just made the guilt worse. They weren’t Sylvio or Nadia either where he _wanted_ to try and at least appear better to them.

He no longer cared what they all thought.

And for someone like him, a people pleaser to his core, Lance didn’t know what exactly that all meant.

His goal at this point was just to get through the day and go hom— go back to the Garretts’. He’d have Hunk with him for most of the day but they split for P.E. as Lance would be in a study hall instead and then again for physics and math at the end of the day (Hunk in AP versions at different times). Someone else was going to have to navigate him around then since he couldn’t drive the wheelchair himself (at least three more weeks) and his gut clenched at the unknown who. He knew there’d be volunteers but…

But he didn’t want to talk to them.

He just felt more sick.

Lance didn’t know if Hunk had forewarned people beforehand or if his drooped head was indication enough, but outside of a few shoulder pats and some murmured apologies most kept away from forcing him to engage.

Lance was both relieved and hurt by the distance.

He was with Hunk for the first three periods and then Ryan, always quiet but a strong presence, had taken control of Lance’s wheelchair to bring them to Lance’s new study hall. He’d said nothing except to squeeze Lance’s shoulder, his grip warm and secure compared to the feather light pats of his other classmates.

Lance appreciated that more than words could say.

Ryan brought him then to lunch where Lance sat with Hunk, Pidge (who despite being half the size of the seniors around her was the second biggest personality (normally) next to Lance and Lance swore his friends had developed almost a big brother complex over her; the sophomore in a sea of seniors), Ryan and two other members of the swim team, trying to eat the meal Hunk put together specifically for him — orange slices and a bowl of hearty chicken soup warmed up courtesy of the lunch ladies — but he’d barely managed to stomach more than a few mouthfuls. He could feel Hunk’s concern and Pidge’s sharp worry, but he couldn’t eat.

He was just glad he hadn’t thrown up.

Hunk had taken him to history then with Lance’s other favorite teacher outside of Shiro: Mr. Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, who insisted the students just call him Coran. He was an eccentric personality and Lance had marked him his favorite from his political science class back in sophomore year and he’d been lucky enough to have Coran for a class every year since. There was just something about Coran that _clicked_ with Lance and Coran seemed to equally enjoy his company, always offering an open door if Lance wanted to talk and he’d gone to him on more than one occasion to just _talk_ about grades or stress or share a story of his own.

He and Hunk arrived a few minutes early (given permission to leave other periods with a several minute head start of the bell due to navigating the wheelchair) and it was apparently Coran’s break as the classroom was empty save for the mustachioed teacher sitting at his desk and elegantly peeling an apple.

He set it down immediately and his face pulled into a smile. “Lance, lad, welcome back,” he said gently, and there was such _understanding_ there, something deeper than the greeting would suggest, that Lance found himself ducking his head.

No one knew much about Coran for all of his stories; he was well-traveled, had the most insane encounters, knew the randomest of facts… but Lance didn’t know about _him._

He had the strangest, saddest feeling in that instant that Coran had experienced some sort of huge loss too.

Hunk murmured something that Lance didn’t quite catch before he moved away as Lance felt Coran move closer and then a hand place itself on his left shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

Lance swallowed back the building sob at the tender action.

He refused to cry anymore.

“I have something for you,” Coran said quietly.

The hand lifted and he heard Coran step away before his footfalls returned. Lance found himself raising his head ever so, the confusion as to _what_ Coran had for him (he didn’t think it was a card) for the moment a welcome relief from the constant ache of sadness and guilt.

It was a plant. Green leaves with tiny purple clustered flowers in a dark blue pot with white accents that almost looked like a blurred abstract of the “V” seagulls made. Coran held it out with a soft, “careful, it is heavy,” and Lance took it on instinct, settling it on his lap as it was indeed heavier than the size would suggest.

It was pretty, Lance thought. It smelled nice too, a sort of cherry almond maybe, with a touch of vanilla.

“It is a heliotrope,” Coran said, sitting himself on a chair at one of the desks and facing Lance. “Where… where I come from it is tradition in times of mourning to gift this plant. It represents eternal love.”

Lance’s hands tightened on the pot.

Eternal love?

His eyes stung.

“It is relatively easy to care for,” Coran continued. “Just give it some sun and water when the soil becomes dry. This is a dwarf variety so it should not grow too much more. I… I hope that you will find some comfort in it — the smell is… is a particular balm to myself— and care for it, just as I know how much your family cares for you.”

Coran’s voice had grown somewhat thick and as Lance looked up from the blossoms Coran’s eyes, a shifting shade of purple to blue, were glassy.

This…

This was personal to him.

And the fact Coran was sharing it with him…

“Thank you,” Lance managed to say. “I, um…”

The bell shrilled in the background.

Coran gave his knee a pat, eyes clearing up. “My door is always open, Lance. Even if you just need a quiet place to sit for a while, please, do not hesitate.”

Lance nodded.

“Regarding classwork I know it might seem a little daunting right now, so do what you feel that you can, all right? And if it is still too much please, tell me.”

“Okay,” Lance whispered.

Coran smiled gently at him and then rose, just as other students began to trickle in. Hunk made his way back over, steering Lance towards where his desk was and offering support as Lance transferred himself awkwardly from the wheelchair into the actual chair, the plant placed atop the desk.

“¿ _Estás bien?”_ Hunk asked quietly, adjusting the chair so Lance’s bulky aircast fit beneath it.

Lance gave a noncommittal shrug.

Not really. But he wasn’t about to burst into sobs either so…

Hunk just squeezed his shoulder and sat next to him.

Coran’s lecture about the newspaper strike in the 1920s — he got sidetracked by a student asking him about the musical about it — would have been riveting and no doubt hilarious based on the laughter about the room, but Lance sat there silently, pen idle in his hand and notebook page blank.

He was _trying,_ he was.

But…

But everything seemed to be fuzzy around the edges and his stomach was churning again.

He felt hot.

And then cold.

And then a strange combination of both.

The nausea was growing worse as the clock steadily ticked down class as this was where he and Hunk would part for the rest of the day and Lance didn’t have any swim team members in this class and Pidge wasn’t here (she was going to be in Hunk’s AP versions) for later and he didn’t want to have someone’s pity directed fully on him.

His throat felt thick and chalky and his hands were trembling on the desk.

With about ten minutes to go, Coran called an end to the lecture; giving them all time to pack down and making it so Lance wasn’t the only one moving about since he had early release from class.

“Ah, Keith,” Lance heard Coran call out above the murmured chatter. “You have Mrs. Olia and then Mr. Shirogane for your last two classes, yes? Would you be Lance’s escort, please?”

Keith?

Keith _Kogane?_

Was Coran serious?

Lance’s hands tightened on the armrests of the wheelchair he’d just gotten back into. It wasn’t that he disliked Keith, not really. But he didn’t know much him outside of the fact he was a fellow senior, also wanted to get into GGU’s vaunted space pilot program, and had broken James Griffin’s jaw back in freshman year and all the things that came with that.

James had had it coming, Lance knew, the son of the superintendent and beyond cocky because of it. Keith had always been this quiet loner kid who transferred into the school halfway through the year. Lance had tried to say hello but he was always met with a brush off and had eventually stopped.

No one still knew what James had said (and he wouldn’t talk about it) but in the middle of P.E. class Keith had _attacked_ him, breaking his jaw, giving him a concussion and bruises all over. Lance thought for sure he was going to be expelled but after a two week suspension he was back.

For the rest of that year and sophomore year Keith alternated between being outright hostile to quiet and withdrawn. Lance had tried one last time to reach out but his hand and attempt had been batted away and Lance had called it at that. Keith didn’t want to be his friend, didn’t want _any_ friends, and Lance could respect that (even if he didn’t understand).

Junior year had rolled around and while Keith was still withdrawn he seemed more… contemplative now. Settled. Lance had even seen him laugh one time in Coran’s class (they were both in sociology at that time) before he’d clammed it up as though not wanting anyone to see it.

Lance wondered sometimes what had happened to make such a change.

Even with all that though Lance found himself admiring Keith. He didn’t care at all what people thought about him and it was such a… a _freeing_ thought, especially for someone like Lance. And while his grades weren’t anything to brag about (although they were still good, much better than his own) Lance had seen him both drive (and was grateful he was not Keith’s driver’s ed partner or instructor) and fly the simulator for GGU’s pilot entrance exam and…

_Holy crow._

Keith was amazing, and that was an understatement. Lance had silently marked him as a rival, as a benchmark to his own success, and he had hoped when they both got into GGU (Keith was going for a track scholarship, he knew, and just like his driving he ran _fast)_ they might have an actually friendly rivalry.

Although he wasn’t going to college anymore though, so....

What it all boiled down to though was Keith was the _last_ person he’d have thought to act as his chauffeur and based upon Keith’s hesitant, “uh, okay…” he hadn’t thought so either. It made logistical sense given they were going to the same places for the last two periods but…

Keith?

The arrangement did have one benefit though, Lance realized. Keith wouldn’t expect him to talk or do anything and he could expect the same.

It was actually a relief. Maybe Coran had been on to something with his pick.

He was so _tired,_ mentally and physically, and it was taking all he had to remain as present as he could, and he was failing even in that. For a few minutes at least he could have _quiet_ and try to pull himself somewhat together for the last two classes.

He just…

Just didn’t want to be here anymore.

He just wanted to go _home._

(He didn’t have a home.)

Hunk bid him a quiet goodbye, concern lingering, as Keith strode over and gripped the wheelchair handles like he was going into battle.

A moment later they were out of the classroom and into the hall.

Lance kept his head tipped down, looking at his plant, and Keith was silent behind him, the only sound the scuffs of his shoes on the floor and the clack of the wheelchair.

Lance knew he should still say thank you, but before he had the chance to work the words up they were arriving at math class and Keith was wheeling him in and stepping away.

That same pattern repeated itself almost an hour later, except with a longer trek as they had to make for the elevator (situated all the way at the back of the school by the theater) and then ride it up towards Shiro’s classroom.

He could feel Keith’s eyes boring into his head from above as they waited for the slow-moving elevator to arrive and Lance bowed his head further.

He wondered what Keith was thinking.

He needed to say something. It was too quiet now.

Mamá would have scolded him multiple times over by now for his lack of manners. _Always say thank you, even for small things,_ she would say. _A thank you goes long way._

“Um,” he forced the word out, a whisper. “Thanks. For… for doing this.”

“It’s fine.”

The words were clipped and Lance winced, shoulders hunching in more.

The elevator dinged and Keith pushed him in.

The silence felt suffocating now.

Lance should have kept his mouth shut.

“We’re going to the same place,” Keith said into the silence, voice a touch softer. “Makes sense.”

Lance let out a barely audible hum.

Neither said anything else, but the quiet then wasn’t quite so stiff.

It was still a relief to get to Shiro’s class, although they had to wait outside the door as the previous class was just letting out, and Lance could feel the looks directed towards him, heard some quiet condolences sent his way as they exited.

He didn’t — couldn’t — respond.

Shiro greeted them both quietly but with a smile and a warm hand alighted on Lance’s shoulder, asking quietly if he needed any assistance in getting into his seat. Lance gave the barest inclination of his head — his chest was aching fiercely now and his leg was a dull throbbing from the movement, limited as it had been — and he was familiar with Shiro’s hold as he often helped the team to stretch, to demonstrate, to playfully dunk them when they were getting to be a bit too much.

His coach’s touch this time was just as firm if more careful as he guided one of Lance’s arms around his neck and then _lifted_ him out of the chair and into the seat. Lance could sense more than see Keith watching and despite it all he felt his cheeks flush at how _weak_ he must look right now.

“I know this is hard,” Shiro said as he settled Lance down, breath warm on his cheek. “I know, buddy. Just… just do what you can for now, okay?”

The same advice Coran and nearly every teacher had given him.

He’d… he’d sort of hoped Shiro _wouldn’t_ say that, that he’d tell him to straighten up and _focus,_ one of his favorite phrases. But Shiro’s talent as a coach wasn’t from yelling or demanding things, it was working with and encouraging them and Lance could count on two fingers the amount of times he’d ever heard Shiro actually yell and both of them involved instances where people had been acting stupid and someone could have gotten hurt.

Lance forced a nod.

“Okay,” Shiro squeezed his shoulder.

Lance was the furthest thing from okay.

Still, he nodded again.

He had to be okay.

Somehow.

And so he tried to follow along with the test review as best he could (it wasn’t very well).

Throughout it all he felt a set of piercing purple eyes watching him.

He was too tired to care or think about what it was Keith wanted from him.

Nothing he could give, he knew that much.

All he gave people was trouble and guilt and pain and no one wanted that.

He…

He should have just died too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Heliotropes smell of cherry-almond, which, some _Color_ fans may remember, is the scent I gave for the balm Coran used for his wife’s hands and almond is one of the scents I associate with Coran! ♥ Also yes, that pot does have the Voltron symbol on it but what it means we will never know ;p Just a little Easter egg to canon inside of my Easter egg to my headcanons.


	7. Seven

“Okay, that’s _it_.”

That was all the warning Lance got that they were deviating from the normal routine — leave math classroom, head to elevator, go to Shiro’s class in silence as he and Keith had been doing for nearly a week — before Keith pushed him past the elevator and down the hallway that led off into practice rooms for band and theater members.

Lance turned his head, not sure what he was going to say — a week later and he’d still barely said anything to anyone at school and had never spoken with Keith again — but Keith’s eyes were narrowed and flashing and he looked _dangerous_ and Lance swallowed thickly, both in slight fear and confusion.

It was almost welcome to the dull cloud he’d been caught up in.

He’d gone to school all of last week and was now halfway into the second week, but if anyone asked Lance honestly couldn’t name one thing he’d learned. It was just a haze of numbers and essays and lectures and even when he’d tried to read, to do homework, the information had blurred.

He’d ended up crying when he realized he’d read the same page in the English class anthology several times and had _no_ idea what it said and Hunk had tugged it away from him and cuddled him into a hug instead.

That seemed like all he was capable of doing. He was barely going through the motions of life and he still couldn’t bring himself to do more and it was a never-ending battle of guilt that grew every time he saw Luis’ sad eyes and Hunk’s drawn expression that he wasn’t getting better.

He tried. He _was_ trying.

It just wasn’t enough.

Just like he hadn’t been enough to save _anyone._

Only himself.

He’d gone to the hospital on Friday afternoon to meet with the doctors, who had checked his ribs, his leg, his lungs and reported everything was healing well without any complications and the cut on his leg would heal with as minimal of scarring as they could manage; a line of darkened brown tinged red flesh that looked almost like a long lightning bolt.

Lance didn’t care.

His appearance had always meant so much to him and it was almost too much effort now to even just wash his face. He was somewhat surprised that he _hadn’t_ broken out, but Rachel had always told him he didn’t need all of those products.

Looked like she was right.

He wished he could have told her.

He couldn’t tell her anything though. Never again.

The doctors had tried to push a therapist on him again and Lance had turned away. Luis had begged for him to give it a chance, to please talk with them, but Lance didn’t want to.

No one wanted to hear it.

He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. Didn’t want to talk about how hand holding made his heart race with fear, how any type of cold water made him freeze, how any sort of bright headlight (realized that evening of the appointment) had him whimpering and cowering down and crying.

Post traumatic stress disorder, they diagnosed, alongside his survivor’s guilt. He wouldn’t get better unless he could start coming to terms with what happened, they said.

Lance would never come to terms with it.

All he had to offer were apologies and neither Luis or Hunk wanted to hear them. They shut him down as soon as he started — “It’s not your fault, Lance,” “ _No más disculpas, Lancito_ ,” — and Lance wanted to feel frustrated, wanted to say that he was _trying_ to build up to it, that he didn’t _like_ feeling like this, but those words got locked up too.

And so he remained silent and withdrawn.

At least the nausea seemed to be under control now, even though he still had no appetite.

The closest he’d gotten to freeing himself from that removed haze was when Lisa had come by Sunday afternoon with the kids. He hadn’t done or said much but he’d colored with Nadia and he and Sylvio had played war for almost two hours before Sylvio had claimed victory, Sylvio chattering away all the while about school and his friends and that superhero movie that Lisa had taken him to yesterday.

Lance had been both amazed, glad, and a little jealous at how well Sylvio was coping (even though he knew that of course it would be different because Sylvio hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t lost his siblings and parents, but still…). That should be _him._ He should be the one cheering up a seven-year-old, not the reverse of trying to bring a smile to a seventeen-year-old’s face. His reactions had even made Nadia kiss his cast again and then his cheek, telling him his boo-boos didn’t seem to be getting better.

No, he’d murmured into Nadia’s hair, pulled into little pigtails, no they weren’t.

 _“Why?”_ she’d asked, her chubby fingers twined in his shirt, and Lance had just shaken his head.

Someone finally wanted to hear him and it was a four-year-old.

No.

He wasn’t going there.

She had prescribed him her own doctor’s analysis, which included the eating of candy, fresh air (“ _Mommy says it’s good for us so it’ll be good for you too”),_ lots of hugs and band-aids. Lance ended up with two My Little Pony and one Scooby-Doo patches on his cheeks and several more on his arms before Lisa had caught wind of it and halted anymore.

Lance kept the ones on his arms until they fell off in the shower on Tuesday.

He’d come closest to talking with Pidge as she was the one treating him the most… normal, even if she had been refraining from teasing him and her touches were not shoulder punches but small, soft squeezes. She was the reason he had tried to get through some of his mathematics as she had rapped his knuckles with a pencil at lunch the other day, told him he was using the wrong formula, and corrected him.

Lance had been startled that he’d felt _something_ at the action but Ryan had gently told Pidge to _“be nice,”_ and Pidge had sobered and nodded and whispered a quiet apology at Lance.

He wanted to scream.

That was locked in his throat too.

He needed _something_ to break him out of this spiral. He needed someone to talk to, someone who would actually listen and even if they didn’t agree with what he said.  

Would a therapist have been the right path? Lance hated that he hesitated on that answer. But no. They’d just want to prescribe him more medicine, more sessions, try and tell him too that he wasn’t at fault.

He didn’t want that.

He just…

Just needed someone to _listen._  

Which was why, as Keith steered him into a darkened practice room and practically slammed the door behind them, he had above the slight pulsating fear at the dark (so cold, so dark, too dark, he couldn’t _breathe)_ he welcomed that spark of fear and confusion.

It was something else.

“That’s _it,”_ Keith repeated, letting go of the wheelchair handles and coming around to the front, reaching out and flicking on the small lamp atop the piano. Lance let out a small, shuddering breath at the _light_ although it was in complete contrast to Keith’s dark expression.

Lance remained quiet.

Waiting.

Keith _growled_ and Lance almost startled but didn’t react otherwise.

It was something.

But it wasn’t enough.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Keith waved a hand at him. “ _This!_ What the fuck is that kind of reaction? Aren’t you going to say _anything?_ Maybe like, what the fuck, Kogane? Or, or, I don’t know, at least ask what we’re doing here?”

Lance still said nothing even though he felt his heart begin to slowly start to pick up tempo as the _something_ sparked through his veins.

Was…

Was Keith _concerned?_ Over _him?_

“Who the fuck are you?” Keith demanded.

Lance opened his mouth to answer with his name but then closed it with a soft tap.

“Exactly,” Keith answered for him. “You’re not whoever Lance Esposito is. You’re barely even a functioning human, and I don’t mean that because of that,” he pointed at Lance’s leg. “You’ve barely said a fucking word since you came back to school and normally you _never_ shut up. Ever.” A vein was throbbing on Keith’s temple at that. “You haven’t smiled or laughed _once_ in Coran’s class. You just _sit_ there and…” Keith’s voice grew quieter. “And look like you’re trying not to cry.”

At that Lance did start.

Was…

Was he that transparent? And to _Keith_ of all people?

“Aren’t...” his voice was quieter still and dark eyes met Lance’s before they glanced away towards an empty music stand just over Lance’s shoulder. “Aren’t you seeing anyone for help? Talking to _someone?”_

Lance very slowly shook his head.

“Why the fuck not?” and Keith’s voice was hot with tempered anger again.

“I…”

Lance swallowed.

And shook his head.

Why did Keith care?

“No. You do not get to fucking pull that here. Answer the question. Why the fuck aren’t you talking to anyone?”

Lance shook his head again but found the words bubbling up.

“No one… no one will _listen_.”

The last word came out almost a sob.

Not the way he needed them to.

“I’ll listen,” Keith snapped.

Lance’s head jerked up.

What?

“I’ll listen,” Keith repeated, gentler.

And although he looked uncomfortable; shoulders rigid and arms crossed, there was not a hint of a lie on his face.

“Why?” Lance whispered.

Why would Keith care about _him?_ They weren’t friends. They weren’t even acquaintances. Why would he want to help him? Listen to him?

Keith shifted on his feet, looking even more uncomfortable now, but he still spoke.

“Because I… I know. What it’s like. To… to lose your family.”

Lance’s breath caught.

What?

“My… my pop died when I was ten,” Keith continued, averting his eyes again and arms moving almost into a hug about himself.  “He was all the family I had. I… I didn’t process it well. Didn’t have time to either, since I went to—” he broke off, giving a shake of his head.

“I… I didn’t really start to, not really, not well, until a couple years ago. I was so… so angry all the time, but before that I… I was removed. Like, like you. I didn’t _care._ I got into fights to feel _something._ It was,” he let out a low laugh that was not humorous at all, “not a good coping skill. I’m… I’m still learning but it’s better now. A lot better. And what you’re doing…” His eyes flicked back to Lance’s, who found he could not look away. “You’re like me. Except… except you _do_ have people who care about you. And what you’re doing is hurting both you and them.”

“I know,” Lance said after a pause. “I know. But I…” he swallowed, hands clenching into trembling fists on his lap.

“Talk to me,” Keith said, although it was almost a demand. “I’ll listen. And… and I don’t know if it’ll help, but… but…”

But maybe it would be enough. For now.

Lance felt nausea returning but he welcomed it this time.

It was different.

This was different.

The class bell rang down the hall.

It jolted Lance back and he shook his head. “We… we have class—”

“No we don’t,” Keith was already pulling his phone out. “I’ll text Shiro. He’ll understand.”

Lance frowned in confusion.

Why would Keith have Shiro’s number?

As if sensing the question Keith let out a small laugh, but it sounded genuine. “Shiro… well, he’s… he’s the reason I… the reason I’m still here. He’s… he’s my brother. Not really,” he added quickly. “But… but yeah. He is.”

Lance felt his eyes widen. Keith’s calmer demeanor had come about their junior year.

The year Shiro had, out of the blue, started teaching here.

Coincidence? Definitely not. He felt something uncoil further in his stomach.

“So,” Keith sat down with a hard thump on the piano bench, arms still crossed and eyes sharp but there was something… open on his face. “Talk.”

Lance licked his lips.

Where did he even start?

“I…” he swallowed again. “I killed my family.”

Keith didn’t interrupt him as everyone else always did here. He didn’t tell him that Lance wasn’t at fault, didn’t tell him not to say that. He didn’t say anything except incline his head ever so.

He was listening.

And Lance felt the words spilling from his lips.

It had been his fault, his family all together because of him, out that late because of him. He hadn’t been able to get free, hadn’t been able to save Rachel who… he cut himself off then, fingers digging painfully into his legs because that was too much, too sudden right now, to describe her death. He had lived while they had all died and it wasn’t fair. He should have been the one to die.

It should have been him.

Keith stayed quiet but his gaze was hyper-focused.

He was still listening.

Lance vomited out that he didn’t feel good, that they put him on an antidepressant because of those comments but he didn’t think it was helping. He felt disconnected, felt sick, felt… felt _alone._ He said he didn’t ever want to swim again, that he wasn’t afraid of water but he was afraid of the cold, of drowning.

Drowning again.

He’d died, technically. The paramedics had revived him.

He… he thought maybe…

Maybe they shouldn’t have.

All he was doing was hurting Luis, hurting Lisa and the kids. But… but he couldn’t go now. He couldn’t do that to Luis.

He couldn’t lose another.

Even if… even if Lance had been the reason he’d lost everyone else.

He was aware he repeated himself a number of times but Keith never asked him to stop, not even when the final bell rang to dismiss for the day.

Lance kept going.

He felt sick and scared and hurt but at the same time he didn’t feel anything and that scared him more. He felt guilty all the time. About the crash, about the bills, about the finances, about college, about being a burden.

All he was doing was worrying his family and that made him feel worse, but their solution of being patient and understanding wasn’t helping him because all it was doing was enabling him. He felt like he was letting them down, especially Luis. Luis who had lost everyone and he was still functioning, still looking forward while all Lance could do was watch the world go on around him.

He was scared to try and start living again because he didn’t know how to without his family.

“I don’t know what to do,” Lance ended with, throat dry and thick at the same time. “I’m _tired_ and scared and I’m sick of being both but I can’t stop and… and…” he hiccuped back a sob. “And I just… just want it to _stop.”_

Silence echoed, broken only by Lance’s shallow pants as his chest heaved up and down from his verbal deluge that hadn’t stopped for over an hour.

“Can I say something?” Keith asked after a minute as he seemed to realize Lance had finished.

Lance nodded.

“Bullshit.”

Ocean eyes widened.

“Look, I get it, you feel guilty about what happened,” Keith continued. “That’s natural. You were the reason everyone was in the car and your win at state was the reason everyone was out so late.”

Lance felt something in his heart clench.

Yes.

Exactly.

“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” Keith said, and he leaned forward then, knees gently bumping against Lance’s. “You didn’t. That drunk driver did. He was three times the legal limit according to the papers. _He_ made a mistake. He made the decision to drink and then drink that much. He decided to get behind the wheel. _He_ is the one at fault. He was wrong. _You_ were not.”

Keith’s eyes were boring into Lance’s now and he could not look away. “You were in an accident not of yours or any of your family’s making. You were hurt and pinned and you did _everything_ you could to try and save your family. You,” Keith’s throat bobbed, “You _tried,_ Lance,” and that was the first time Lance could recall Keith ever calling him by his name. “You tried to save them. That’s… that’s sometimes all you can do.”

Keith let out a soft sigh then that almost sounded like a sob. “My pop… he was a firefighter. He died while trying to save a little girl in a fire.”

Lance felt all the air whoosh out of him.

That…

That was _awful._

“Keith, I’m…” Sorry wasn’t right. Lance hadn’t wanted condolences and he doubted Keith did either, especially from so long ago. He instead reached out and grabbed at Keith’s hand that had landed atop the other boy’s lap. Keith startled but didn’t pull away.

“It… it was caused by an electric short,” he instead said quietly. “Day after Christmas. I didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. And when I finally did admit it I was so angry at the world. At everyone. The family who caused it even though they’d just lost their daughter. At the electric company. At, at Christmas,” and he let out a soft sob. “I was angry at the other firefighters for not saving him, for not doing more. But mostly...

“Mostly I was angry at Pop. I… I blamed _him._ For rushing back in when they told him not to, for thinking about someone else instead of me. And then I started to blame myself for even thinking that, for being  _selfish,_ because my pop… he was a hero. He died a hero. He died trying to save someone because that’s who he was. They still died. But he tried.”

Keith squeezed Lance’s hand back. “What… what I’m trying to get at is that as easy as it is you can’t blame yourself. You did all you could and that’s what matters. You tried to save them. You did. And… and your family… I don’t think they’d like to see you like this. They wouldn’t want you blaming yourself like this and being so unhappy. They’re… They’re _glad_ you lived. They’re so grateful. You got a second chance at life and they would be fucking pissed if you wasted it.”

“Pissed?” Lance choked out, trying to imagine that word with them. Mamá might even consider it a swear and she’d have gotten the soap dispenser multiple times over during Keith’s part of this conversation.

But Keith was right.

They would be upset with him. Not that he lived, never that. But that he kept saddling himself with the guilt, the fault, of their deaths.

Veronica would have really gotten along well with Keith, he thought. She probably was trying to channel herself through him right now and all he needed was a hair ruffle and a headlock to complete the image.

He imagined Keith doing so in Veronica’s place and it wrenched a sob out of his throat and then another.

And then he couldn’t stop.

“Oh no,” Keith muttered and Lance heard him shift and a hand tentatively patted his back, clearly uncomfortable now. Apparently heartfelt confessions were one thing and crying was another.

Lance shouldn’t laugh at that but he did so around his tears, lips twitching up into a smile and chest heaving.

It…

It hurt.

But it felt good.

Right.

And…

And Lance thought that maybe…

Finally…

It was okay to try to smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying the fic and can spare a moment after reading I'd greatly appreciate if you left a comment. Thanks :)


	8. Eight

**Two days later...**

Lance finally was ready to view his social media pages. Luis had retrieved his computer from the house days before and Hunk had offered to let Lance borrow his, but he had turned down the offer.

Now…

Now he was ready.

Hunk was sitting behind him, arms wrapped tenderly in a hug and Pidge was pressed to his side, her arm looped through one of Lance’s.

He’d talked to them, with Keith’s help. It felt strange still to say that, but it was true. Keith had listened and Lance…

Lance had found his words again.

Shiro had driven him to the Garretts’ well after school had officially ended, Keith sitting in the passenger seat. They’d both gotten out and Keith had hovered protectively as Shiro helped him hop up the driveway and inside.

Shiro had apparently gotten in touch with Hunk who in turn had reached out to Pidge and Luis and they were all gathered there, expressions torn between worry and hope and some confusion. Hunk though had crossed the room and pulled Keith into a hug. The smaller boy had stiffened at the contact and Hunk had loosened his hold, but the whispered _thank you_ had held on tight still. Hunk didn’t know yet any particulars, but he knew somehow that Keith had been responsible for whatever this change was.

And any change was good.

It had still hurt to hear as Lance quietly relayed that he hadn’t been able to talk about it because, as kind as everyone’s intentions were, they weren’t… weren’t letting him say what he really needed to. That he… he needed to say it, have someone listen and not silence him, so then he could…

Could move past it.

Lance had said, barely audible, that he still didn’t want to really talk about… about details, but… but he was ready now, he thought, to maybe start addressing it and to… to move forward.

Luis had pulled Lance into a tender hug then, a quiet apology passing his lips that time, and Hunk had joined in, echoing it, guilt twisting his own stomach now. Lance _had_ tried to talk to them they just…

Hadn’t listened.

Not in the way Lance had needed.

Some best friend he was.

 _“No mas disculpas,”_ Lance had said to them, a parrot of their own words and there was the tiniest uptick to his lips that widened into a full smile, with tears, when Luis pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

It was the most beautiful smile Hunk had ever seen.

They were taking small steps, but they were steps. That first night, all of them gathered, they’d had an impromptu movie night complete with Shiro and Keith, the former of who said they would love to attend and had corralled Keith into a spot on the couch. Hunk had been both very confused and amused  at this surprise relationship between the two of them until Pidge had quietly told him that Shiro was Keith’s legal guardian and emergency contact via some of course completely legal accessing of the school’s mainframe and now that she said that Hunk could see the familiarity, like a pair of brothers, between them and had bit down every instinct he had to ask for more details. Lance had sat between Luis and Hunk, Pidge leaned up against his legs, and while he hadn’t laughed as he normally would at the comedy on screen he had smiled and his hand had found Hunk’s and held on tight.

Small steps.

And now come Friday evening, in which Pidge had been invited over for a video game night to start, Lance had said he wanted to go on his accounts, on his siblings’ pages and…

See what messages had been left.

Hunk had a box of tissues ready (mostly for him although he’d told Lance he could have some too and that had drawn a wet smile) and cups of hot cocoa and blankets piled all around them with the lights turned on a warm dim (Lance had had a new aversion to the dark and he’d finally told Hunk it was because it had been so _dark_ in the lake and… Hunk had hugged him tight and that had been enough for that moment).

Lance moved a slightly trembling hand to his page…

And clicked.

 

**Four days later...**

“Keith!”

Lance’s words weren't quite a shout but they were louder than anything he’d yet uttered in a long while and the volume almost took him by surprise, and it definitely did Hunk as he knocked over his milk carton.

But he’d had to be louder as Keith passed by a few lunch tables deeper in, heading as always to the table in the corner where he sat by himself each day.

Not anymore.

The dark head looked up, confused for a moment, before purple eyes lighted on Lance and he slowly made his way over, hand wrapped around his backpack strap. Lance could feel Ryan’s gaze, a quiet understanding, and the confusion of his two other swim teammates, while Pidge just muttered, “finally,” and Hunk smiled even as he mopped up spilled milk.

“Sit with us,” Lance said, quieter, gesturing at the open seat next to Hunk. “Um, if… if you want to that is.”

He’d always thought Keith _liked_ being the lone wolf but he’d seen the way he’d settled into the couch at the Garretts’ for the movie night, the way his eyes had tracked more than once about the room.

And…

And this felt right.

Keith had helped him, had listened.

It was Lance’s turn now.

It made something warm fill him because Lance _liked_ helping people and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it, how much of him had almost died even though he’d lived.

“Uh,” Keith’s hand tightened on the strap.

“C’mon man,” Hunk patted the spot. “You can sample the new ranch dip I made; I need more tasters.”

“It’s supposedly really good,” Lance told him. He hadn’t been allowed to eat it himself, stomach still on a lighter diet although he was working his way back up.

“Supposedly?” Hunk squawked in mock indignation and Lance laughed and Keith’s lips quirked up in a hint of a smile.

“Okay,” Keith agreed quietly.

Lance’s smile grew.

 

**Fourteen days later...**

Lance could feel the therapist’s eyes on him as finished speaking and resisted the urge to hunch forward.

He’d promised Luis he’d try and he didn’t want to withdraw now.

It wasn’t that Lance wanted to talk to someone like this, not really. He had found his words again, was trying to process his grief through healthier means — talking to Hunk without any interruption except for little soothing sounds as Hunk hugged him, holding Pidge’s hand and interlacing their fingers, trying (sometimes failing but always trying) to share stories about his siblings, about his parents — and he was feeling better from it.

He cried still, a lot, as little things reminded him of them, but it was a freeing set of tears rather than the dark guilty ones of before. Each time he felt both hollow and full from it and his chest ached but it was a good ache.

It reminded him that he was alive.

And he wasn’t going to waste it.

He’d asked Luis the other day if, now that he was… was doing better, if they could stop the medication. If he could do this on his own without… without that.

Luis had said it would be up to the doctors, who had requested Lance speak with a therapist before any determination, and so Lance had found himself sitting in a very squishy armchair and doing his best to answer the questions the therapist had asked him; nothing so much of details that he didn’t still feel ready to share quite yet, but questions as to how he was feeling, what his coping strategies were, how he was sleeping, how school was going, what kind of support did he have, and on and on for almost two hours.

Lance didn’t know if the fact he’d started crying twice or that he’d had to pause a few times as his voice became breathy and high was going to count against him, but the therapist had only brought him a bottle of water and a box of tissues and offered him a candy that tasted almost like butterscotch.

“From what you have said and I have gathered,” the therapist said, her voice a strange, rich accent that Lance found comforting despite the circumstances, “you are indeed moving forward, Lance.”

He felt his breath catch.

A dark hand tapped against her tablet, propped up on her legs where she sat in a marching armchair across from him. “You were only on the SSRI as a precaution due to statements you made in the days following the accident. Tell me plainly,” she looked up, jewel-tone eyes both mesmerizing and intense, “are you harboring any suicidal thoughts or wishes to harm yourself or others?”

“No,” Lance shook his head, trying to put as much conviction as he could behind that word.

He wasn’t and he never had been.

He’d just…

Just felt so _guilty._

The therapist’s lips turned into a smile.

“I did not believe so,” she said. “And given your testimony here I do not believe you, at this point, need to be on such a medication any longer. That said,” she tapped her tablet again, “I would like to continue to speak with you. Every two weeks for the next six months to start.”

Lance’s mouth went dry.

What?

Had he messed up?

“Lance, look at me,” she commanded gently as his gaze turned back down. He forced himself to do so, hands trembling on his lap. “This is not because I do not believe you to be capable. You have shown… shown remarkable strides and in speaking with you I know you are an individual with a very strong heart. But sometimes, as I know you are aware, it is easier to speak with someone not so closely tied to your personal support circle. That is why you were able to first speak with Keith as you mentioned to me, yes?”

Lance thought about it for a moment and then gave a mute nod.

“The grieving process is not linear,” the therapist continued, “nor is the recovery. There will be ups and downs and some days those downs may seem overwhelming. All I ask is that you give yourself time, patience, and love and that you continue to speak your feelings; be that with your friends and family or here, with me. Consider visits with me as a check-in, if you will. Is that all right with you?”

He couldn’t exactly disagree and so he nodded.

What she said though made sense. He knew, as mostly an uphill of a trajectory as he was on right now, it wasn’t going to always be that way.

He…

He still had a lot to figure out.

College. Swimming. The dark.

Maybe… maybe having someone like the therapist would be good.

He flushed then.

He’d…

He’d forgotten her name. She’d introduced herself at the start but he’d been so nervous it had gone in one ear and out the other and now that the worst of his nerves had faded he was aware of how _pretty_ she was and it made his heart race for a different reason and then that made him aware that maybe, maybe, he was starting to move back towards normal.

“Excellent,” the therapist said, turning from him and towards a printer that was starting to hum. “Every other Thursday then at four p.m. I shall look forward to seeing you.” She retrieved the sheet off the printer. “This is your appointment schedule,” she held it out and he took it, hoping she didn’t see the tremble to his hand, “along with my contact information and the hospital’s. If you ever feel that you need to speak with me sooner, please, call the emergency line at the bottom and either myself or one of my colleagues will be in touch.

“I will also cancel any refills on your prescription and you may stop taking it, but if you become aware of any… troubling thoughts, please, reach out to me immediately. You may also experience some side effects as the medication leaves your system and that is normal, so please, be sure to take it easy for the next several days. Any questions for me?”

Lance shook his head, feeling overwhelmed but in a good way.

The therapist leaned forward and rested a dark hand against his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Then I shall see you in two weeks and wish you the warmest regards until then.”

Lance managed a tongue-tripped good-bye and exited the room, her office door closing with a gentle thump behind him.

He glanced down at the appointment schedule and alighted on her name.

Dr. Allura Altea.

He decided therapists, at least Dr. Allura, weren’t so bad after all.

 

**Thirty-two days later...**

The envelope was large.

Very large.

Lance eyed it like one would a viper even as Hunk vibrated with excitement next to him, a matching envelope in his hand.

They were from Galaxy Garrison University.

Based on the thickness and Hunk’s excited squeaking Lance knew they had to be acceptance letters.

But…

But he…

He looked down at his leg, still in the cast, felt his ribs, healed now but always reminding him of what had been done to save his life, ache.

He still hadn’t decided if he was going to swim again (he didn’t know if he even could).

Which meant that this potential scholarship…

Was null and void.

And that meant he wasn’t going to GGU because there was no way, especially now, that he could afford the tuition.

And…

And he did want to go.

He’d come to the decision on his own a few weeks ago and told Keith, who was the only one he’d originally told he had doubts about college. And Keith…

Lance felt a smile pull up his face even as his stomach rolled.

Keith told him he expected Lance to be good competition in their piloting courses.

A…

A rival.

Just what Lance had envisioned.

But without his swimming scholarship, which he would lose if he didn’t join the team and even then possibly lose to poor performance as he knew by the time he was physically healed enough to return to the pool (at least two more months still, the doctors said) he’d have lost muscle mass and strength, he could not afford to go.

“Lance, open it, open it,” Hunk chanted, his finger already jammed under the fold of his own. “C’mon, _hermano._ It’s good news, I know it.”

Lance swallowed and slit open the letter.

It was an acceptance letter.

His eyes widened as he read down the form.

He…

He was being offered a full academic scholarship contingent upon him swimming for GGU, including textbooks, to join their space pilot exploration program. All he would need to pay was housing, and there were resources attached to apply for a loan if needed.

A full ride.

Hunk let out a whoop next to him and shoved a near identical letter except that his was for his academic prowess with a stipulation that Hunk be a part of their competitive robotics team that worked with NASA as a pre-internship.

“We’re going to GGU!” Hunk yelled, grabbing Lance about the waist and lifting him up in his excitement, turning in a circle while Mr. and Mrs. Garrett cheered and Lance heard a camera click going off.

Lance tried to muster up a smile, a grin, but he knew it fell short as Hunk set him carefully back down and a frown pulled on his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

Lance felt guilt pool hot and heavy that he’d just ruined this moment, what should have been a joyous occasion, but Hunk gave him a look, a plea for him to talk.

Hunk had been working on letting Lance do so and not soothing away every hurt, every negative, immediately. Sometimes, he’d found, Lance needed to (they all did) have those moments to move past them.

Lance gave a minute shake of his head. “I… I don’t know if…” he shook his head again. Hunk leaned over and picked up Lance’s letter while Mrs. Garrett came around to read it over her son’s shoulder and Mr. Garrett stepped behind Lance and put a steadying hand on his shoulder and allowed Lance to lean back slightly to take the weight off his right leg.

“Do you want to go to GGU?” Hunk asked after a moment.

“ _Sí,”_ Lance whispered.

He did.

“Then you’re going,” Hunk said, nodding, and he sounded so _confident_ in that that Lance felt something warm burst in his chest.

“I’m going,” he repeated.

Somehow.

He pulled up a more genuine smile, choosing to focus on the moment for now rather than the unknown future.

“I’m going,” he said again. “We’re going.” He met Hunk’s eye. “We’re going to GGU.”

 

**Sixty-one days later**

Lance’s arms were burning from the climb, but he shook his head when Luis offered to help him.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

Lance dug his crutches one last time into the hillside and propelled himself next to where Luis was standing with Lisa and the kids.

And the graves.

It was Lance’s first time visiting and he felt guilty that it had taken him so long to do so, but Luis had told him that he had nothing to feel bad about. Everyone would understand.

And Lance knew he was right.

Luis gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and moved with his immediate family to visit the siblings’ graves first and letting Lance have a private moment with Mamá and Papá.

Lance awkwardly, carefully, lowered himself to the ground in a kneel between the two graves.

“Hi Mamá, Papá,” he whispered.

His eyes were already stinging.

“I… I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to… to visit. But… I know you... You understand. I’ve been… trying. It’s been, been hard,” he swallowed thickly. “I’m trying though. I… I’m getting help. For… for things.

“I made a new friend,” he continued. “He swears a lot, Mamá, but you’d like him. Veronica definitely. And, um, everyone else is doing well. Um, I got into GGU. I’m...” he swallowed again. “I don’t know how I’m going to…”

He shook his head. “But, but Hunk said it’s going to work out. And I want it to. I’m… I’m going to go back to the pool, hopefully, in a few weeks. Shiro said he’d let me in after hours. I’m… I’m a little scared though. I don’t want…”

His hands fisted on his lap. “I’m scared,” he repeated. “I… I’m scared of a lot of things. But I’m trying. I am. I promise. I’m trying to be good. Like, like you’d want.”

A sob pulled itself free. “I m-miss you. All the t-time. I’m sorry that… I’m so sorry. I… I know it wasn’t my fault, but I… I still feel…I’m still sorry.”

Lance trailed off, the graves blurring in front of him. “I just… just want you to know that I love you. So much. And, and I’ll make you proud of me. I… I won’t give up. I promise. I just… Just wish you were here. With me.”

He reached forward, hands descending atop each grave. “I miss you so much,” he whispered. “I love you. _Te quiero,_ Mamá, Papá.”

He straightened up. “I’ll make you proud. Just… just watch me.”

 

**Seventy-eight days later…**

“Sh-Shiro,” Lance stuttered, gripping the ladder on the side of the pool. “I… I _c-can’t._ ”

He’d been free of his cast for three days and on Friday after school ended Shiro had arranged for the two of them to have the pool to themselves.

Lance had gotten dressed in his swim uniform, skin-tight suit stopping just above his knee and showing off the scar that took up his right leg from knee to a few inches above his ankle, and although his hands had been shaking he’d thought he was going to be okay.

Shiro was just there, floating a few yards away to give Lance some space but able to be at his side in a few seconds if Lance needed him to.

He was going to be fine.

He could do this.

He’d thought that until he’d remembered how _cold_ the school pool was.

The water had lapped at his ankles as he stood on the top rung of the ladder and he’d forced himself to step down and then again, the water pooling around his waist.

Cold and rising and _help is coming, it’s gonna be okay,_ and he couldn’t move and his leg was stuck and it was _dark_ and _hold on, hold on Lance, te quiero—_

He’d slipped off the ladder, and had barely caught himself before he’d gone under, bar slamming into his chest _seatbelt jerking him back_ , and he clung to it with all he had even as his arms shook _and push, harder harder, get free he had to get free._

_They were going to drown._

He came back from the memory to the bar gripped in loosening hands and he let out a moan.

If he let go he was going to drown.

_Drown drown so cold, so dark, te quiero—_

A sob was working its way up his chest and he clung tighter.

His lungs hurt. They burned.

He was going to drown.

“Hey, hey, buddy, it’s okay,” and Shiro was there, presence creating little ripples that had Lance wincing and whimpering.

A hand, _warm,_ landed on his shoulder and another wrapped about his chest under the water, holding him tight.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Shiro murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Lance didn’t let go of the ladder.

He could still hear Rachel’s last desperate words.

 _Lance_ _it’s gonna be okay. I love you. I love—_

“Come on, up we go,” Shiro pivoted him gently towards the front of the ladder.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Lance choked out.

He wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to.

Rachel’s gasps were still echoing.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. It’s okay, Lance. Come on, up we go.”

And with Shiro at his back, warm and steady, Lance forced shaking legs back up the rungs and stepped onto the concrete ledge where he curled up, shaking.

Pathetic.

He let out another sob.

Forget swimming. He couldn’t even enter the pool.

_Drown drown drown._

“Lance, buddy, shh, it’s okay, come on, breathe with me,” Shiro was pulling him up by his shoulders, draping a towel around him and Lance hiccuped out a sob. “Come on, deep breath in, breathe with me.”

Lance tried to do so.

He felt like he was drowning still.

Shiro continued to coach him until the black spots had receded from his vision and he became aware he was pulled flush to Shiro’s chest, arms looped about him.

He couldn’t even feel embarrassed and just sagged in the embrace.

He felt so tired.

“I’m sorry,” he managed.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Shiro said gently.

Lance listened to Shiro’s heart thudding below his head, trying to calm his racing own.

“What… what you went through was…” Shiro said after a few more moments, his grip tightening, _safe,_ “it’s not something that is going to be easy to come back from. But… but I’m here for you, every step of the way. If…if you want to swim again we’ll make sure you do. Together.”

“I don’t kn-know,” Lance whispered.

He thought he’d wanted to swim again, but…

_It’s gonna be okay, I love you Lance, te quiero, I love—_

“Let’s call it for today,” Shiro said quietly. “We can try again next week, if you want to.”

Lance gave a jerking nod.

He had to at least try. He’d promised Mamá and Papá.

He’d promised.

“Okay,” Shiro agreed, giving him a squeeze. “Come on, let’s get you a hot shower. You’ll feel better.”

Shiro ended up having to practically lift Lance up as his legs still felt like limp noodles and stood by outside the shower in case Lance fell.

This, Lance thought as Shiro drove him to the Garretts, was what Dr. Allura would call a down.

Or, really, more of a plummet.

Nightmares of cold water and screams plagued him that night.

 

**Eighty-two days later…**

“Coran? Do… do you think I’ll ever…” Lance swallowed. “Ever…be able to… to swim again?”

“I think you can do anything you set your mind to, dear boy,” Coran said gently. “But you must give yourself time. This is not something you can force.”

Lance let out a soft sigh, hands tightening around the cup of tea Coran had brewed for him. He’d taken Coran up on his offer of an open door several times and while Hunk was at a scholastic bowl meeting Lance had paid the teacher a visit and had quietly explained what had happened at the pool on Friday.

“I’m running out of time,” Lance said. “I accepted GGU’s offer, but… but if I can’t swim then… then I need to drop out before I set up the loan and those forms are due in two weeks. And… and I can’t go without the scholarship. There’s… there’s no way.”

Coran hummed contemplatively. “It does sound like a bit of a pickle. But,” he reached out and squeezed Lance’s knee, “I know that if anyone can rise to the occasion it would be you, my boy. That being said… keep me posted, all right? You have many friends here, Lance, who wish to see you succeed.”

Lance’s eyes widened at the implied meaning.

“Coran, no, I couldn’t—”

“It would be a gift,” Coran interrupted. His eyes met Lance’s. “I will not see your dreams grounded, Lance. Not for one who shines as bright as you do.”

Lance ducked his head.

“Keep me posted,” Coran patted his knee again. “But let us see what the coming weeks bring, hmm? I have a good feeling.”

 

**Eight-five days later…**

“I’m right here,” Shiro encouraged, hovering this time right next to the ladder as Lance wavered above the pool. “Come on, buddy. I promise, I’m right here.”

Lance forced a trembling foot back onto the ladder and then another.

The water struck his calf.

It…

It was by no means warm but it was not the chilly temperature the pool normally was.

He looked over his shoulder in surprise.

“Surprise,” Shiro gave him a soft smile. “A little invention put together by someone named Hunk, Pidge and the robotics team. Underwater heaters. They can’t heat the whole pool but I’ve got them all clustered here,” he pointed down and Lance traced through the water a grouping of what looked like space heaters all concentrated in their section of the pool. “Is… is it helping?”

Lance took another tentative step down in answer, his heart warm.

They’d done that… for him?

He was on the lowest step of the ladder a moment later, hands still gripping the railings and water at mid-chest.

He had to let go.

“I’m right here,” Shiro was hovering just next to him, not touching yet. “I promise, I won’t let you fall.”

Lance sucked in a deep breath…

And let go of the railing.

He immediately went down, water brushing at his chin and he let out a startled gasp—

 _It’s gonna be okay. I love you. I love_ — but Shiro’s hands gripped him about his upper arms and kept him bobbing.

“Tread, Lance,” he instructed and Lance forced leaden, weakened legs to do so.

Rachel was still echoing in his ears.

“Focus on me,” Shiro said. “Listen to me, Lance. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re not going to drown. I’m right here.”

Lance jerked out a nod.

Shiro slowly, carefully pulled them off the wall and into the water directly above the heaters.

It was warm there.

Lance shivered at the change.

“How are we doing?” Shiro asked, grip still firm.

“Oh-k-kay,” Lance stuttered. He jerked his head up, nearly clipping Shiro’s chin. “D-don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Shiro promised. “Not until you say so.”

They floated there for a few minutes longer, legs kicking gently below and Lance found the old familiar sensation… not pleasant, but… but calming.

He wasn’t drowning.

Rachel wasn’t screaming.

“You’re doing great, buddy,” Shiro murmured.

Lance gave a small nod and focused on treading.

After a few minutes he gave another nod. “Okay,” Lance whispered. “I… I think…”

“I’ll be right here,” Shiro said. “You’ve got this.”

And he let go.

Lance dipped for a moment before he spread his arms wide, skimming them just below the surface to keep up the tread.

He was…

He was swimming (sort of).

But his real test, his real fear…

He swallowed thickly and glanced down at the water.

He…

He could do this.

He could.

He told Mamá and Papá he’d make them proud.

This was a step towards that.

He took a deep breath.

And sank.

He kept his eyes wide open, the burn of the chlorine welcome, examining the underwater world.

 _Te quiero_ he heard Rachel whisper.

She sounded at peace.

He didn’t remain under long, maybe thirty seconds, but it was long enough.

He popped to the surface with a spray of water, hair hanging heavy but his heart lighter.

“You did it, buddy,” Shiro smiled. “I’m so proud of you, Lance.”

Lance knew he still had a long, long way to go, but…

But he had taken the first step.

And he knew there would be many, many more in his future.

He dreamed that night of Rachel’s laughter and sun-warmed waves.

 

**One hundred and eighty-six days later…**

The August sun was beginning to sink behind the horizon but the barbecue turned bonfire showed no signs of stopping, air still warm and a gentle breeze taking away the worst of the heat.

Lance had just finished up a round of beanbag toss with Sylvio (and he’d been bested by an eight-year-old, he didn’t know how to feel about that because apparently his normally impeccable aim did not extend to weighted beanbags) and his nephew had run off to grab a piece of the pie Mrs. Garrett was just cutting into, leaving Lance standing alone for the moment.

He didn’t mind, eyes drifting about the Garretts’ backyard — his backyard, Mrs. Garrett had told him, as with Luis’ permission their family home was up for sale (now with a pending offer) as Lance didn’t want to return to it and they needed the money he’d told Luis, who had sighed but nodded and quietly agreed.  The guest bedroom at the Garretts’ had officially become his own — and they would not take no for an answer and Lance had hugged both Mr. and Mrs. Garrett so tight that he’d made Mr. Garrett actually wheeze — for when he wasn’t away at school, which they were reporting to tomorrow.

He was going to GGU.

Tomorrow.

He still couldn’t believe it.

It had been close, the university requesting an audience two weeks ago to see his swimming as he had not closed out the rest of the swim season with the team and they had to verify he was still a viable candidate for their own program.

Shiro and Hunk had gone with him to GGU and stood by as Lance swam lap after lap, cheering and clapping.

Lance’s time was far from his personal best, not even close to what he’d scored at state. But GGU had been briefed (courtesy of Shiro) on circumstances and Lance’s new coach, a large, muscular but very cheerful man named Blaytz, had come down, clapped him on the back (and nearly sent him tumbling into the pool) and welcomed him to the team.

Lance, Blaytz had grinned and announced to the gathered administrators, mischievous grin framed by thick dreadlocks, was going to fit in just fine.

It still felt like a dream.

He still couldn’t believe how far he’d managed to come.

Mamá and Papá and Veronica and Rachel and Marco would be _so_ proud, he knew it.

It made him stand just a little straighter too.

The Garretts had decided to throw a send-off party and invited Pidge and Keith, who had brought their families with them, and Lance had shyly asked Coran if he’d want to come too and received the largest, beaming smile in the universe, and Lance couldn’t think of a better way to spend his last night before he _started college._

Pidge, Keith and Lisa were sitting together at one of the tables a deck of cards between them as Keith continued to destroy them at go fish — no one should be that lucky, Pidge had argued, and they were on their third game now.

Luis and Shiro and Pidge’s dad, Dr. Holt, were sitting next to the bonfire, drinks in hand, and chatting quietly. The firelight highlighted the smiles on both of their faces and Luis’ fullbodied laughter sounded above the soft strains of the pop radio set up in the background.

Coran and Mr. Garrett were sitting on the ground a bit further back from the bonfire on a blanket and the latter was allowing Nadia to play with his hair, the little girl attempting at the moment to pull it into pigtails like her own, while Coran’s moustache had an assortment of barrettes. Lance choked on a laugh at the number of scrunchies.

Hunk was with his mom and Pidge’s mom, who insisted they call her Colleen, by the food table, laying out s’mores materials while trying to keep Sylvio away, who had pie in hand now but was eyeing the marshmallows.

“Lance,” Hunk called, one hand pressed against Sylvio’s forehead. “Some help?”

“You’re doing great, _hermano,”_ Lance grinned back.

Hunk gave him a mock scowl and turned to Colleen, pleading for assistance with the comment that she had to deal with short, demanding persons all the time, she must be an expert.

“I heard that!” Pidge shouted.

Hunk gave her a cheeky wave and Pidge leapt to her feet, scattering her cards, and charging him.

Hunk yelped and made a break for it, both Pidge and Sylvio and then Nadia on his tail, screaming that he didn’t mean it, please have mercy he just ate; he couldn’t run like this.

Lance laughed so hard he nearly cried as they managed to tackle Hunk and Nadia clipped barrettes into his hair and off his bandana tails and Pidge sat atop Hunk, proclaiming her dominance and “this is why you don’t mess with short people.”

Hunk was only freed when Mrs. Garrett announced that s’mores were ready to be made and there was a mad scramble for the long pronged spits to spear marshmallows on.

Lance watched the scene with soft eyes as everyone gathered around the bonfire, talking and laughing and sharing the supplies.

He hung back for the moment, drinking in the sight of everyone so _happy._

“Lance!” called out Hunk at the same time Luis yelled, “Lancito!”

Lance took a step towards the fire, towards the flickering warmth of both the flames and the smiles turning in his direction.

Towards his family.

It still felt like a dream sometimes, how… how _happy_ he found himself. He had thought before when he was trapped in a nightmare that he would never wake up.

And while the nightmares still visited, while there were still days where he did feel sick and tendrils of guilt still reared up, he didn’t remain there, not for long.

He’d apparently been thinking too much and not moving enough as Nadia ran up to him, hand sticky with marshmallow, and latched onto his own.

“Come on, come on _Tío_ Lance or you’re not gonna get any,” she warned him, tugging him forward and leading him towards the gathered smiles.

Leading him home.

Lance’s smile widened.

Home.

Home was family.

And his was right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap ♥ It’s been one heck of a journey, that’s for sure, but all roads lead home and Lance has found his way once more. Thank you all for joining me on this journey and special thank yous to those who left comments. I truly appreciate them.  
> I’d love to hear your final thoughts so please leave a comment below before you go. Thanks much ♥


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